The seams of my knit mind are rupturing,
the contents in the sack
purple and insidious.
My sight hangs from a tree.
My tongue is sacred and violated.
The fields that lie behind me
Creep ever closer. The
butterflies sharpen their fangs.
The seams of my knit mind are rupturing,
the contents in the sack
purple and insidious.
My sight hangs from a tree.
My tongue is sacred and violated.
The fields that lie behind me
Creep ever closer. The
butterflies sharpen their fangs.
Miniature Moon 