Published by: Depth Writer on 2nd Feb 2017 | View all blogs by Depth Writer


With this cloth, we hurry to hang the opus on drapery first birthed from the lace of silky dreams, and open thy mind to the textile of feeling.


Feel its texture robe itself around your chested vessel, with tissue tightening, weaving fate inside the pores of flesh. Kneeling to the web beneath the soil, 

asbestos beauty hurling toward the border. A canvas blank.


Fingers clawing at the sun in the sky, coulisse warped hands show age and miles traveled. 'fore-and-aft-sail, we glide on wings of fir trees, leeches in the pigments of our skin, begging to be taken away, but you say hell no, for there is no room.



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