Trapped Utopia & Unfettered Wings

On the way home, in the midst of his evening bustle His hand griped at the lament buried inside his hearts muscle Wilted and torn he took off his blues and remained in the dress for which he was born. Pondering in the stillness of feeling lost and lovelorn. ย  Like a gold fish witnessing…

What Crones Up Crows Drown

And though his bones they have bled into oat, ash & dust, his stories, quite blahsensical,ย they shall ever never rust. Whilst parliamentary principles perabulated in his head, he laid upon his pillow, solving problematic proverbs in his bed. Swashbuckling tales wrapped in a small trim blue skirt as she holds a ‘drink me’ bottle beginning…