Urban Legend ts the horror seen in the mirror that isnt there when you turn head to look, the bloated shape that looks like a body floating slowly up the brook; the old man with fury and pain in his eyes, watching from curtained dark room... the steel of the knife, the welled crimson line- the stench within a long-sealed tomb. It is the wind when it screams shrilly, the specter that grieves her life lost. It is the sight of blue lips on a baby, that which causes our gestures of cross. The stories from childhood blend with our dreams; paintings in a maudlin, macabre museum.
Posted on: Sun, 03 Nov 2013 07:08:46 +0000
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015