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deepundergroundpoetry.com
Calling A Furor
Tarnished clouds of stormy twilight, calling a furor as the winds bellow a cacophony of willows. Bending to the ground as the black longneck swans rachet the dark with shadows of death's corps with the ardor of the vine and rose. The darkness was unlit and the tambourines silent as the metamorphoses open the door. Standing on the edge of my poetic apocalypse watching the ink stain an epiphany of my ghost. Waiting at the Sinner's Inn with my long ribs, dripping from my masturbation song.
Published 5th Nov 2021
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