strange tides lay low with undertow black and twisted roots clinging to the sappy tar. while the skies were blue grey with the morning fog rolling no heat no warmth from the sun. the whithering help helpless find warmth in musty mold. the smell is sweet but it makes you sick faltering with whafting juices of salt and coddling grey mass. sleep seems best but you squint to see the faded gleam of what could be a ray of shining. hallucination of a brighter day with eyes closed sickness wins. just float and choke while whithering helping the helpless cling to the black oak oil slicked cloak wonder how much soul is really their soul and how much is just the echo.
Posted on: Sat, 02 Aug 2014 14:20:46 +0000