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We sail through most days dressed in strangers
and unmarked souls. Children of singing suicides, their magic plundered
and sucked out like sweet fruit, empty their bruises onto dirty plates. Iron
faces fat and slumberous from the death machine drift up to the shoreline
decks, their weightless tongues grubbing ante-mortem blood.
— Jan 29, 2025 02:09PM
and unmarked souls. Children of singing suicides, their magic plundered
and sucked out like sweet fruit, empty their bruises onto dirty plates. Iron
faces fat and slumberous from the death machine drift up to the shoreline
decks, their weightless tongues grubbing ante-mortem blood.
