.no angels here, my love.

by cheshire hollows

men clutching to daughters hanging nude from old chicken string.
his Holocaust grin sinking & sneering.
his busted jaw wired shut like an animal.
in the muck & the mire, he was musty, pacing.
my eyes; a plot of land where only seasonal larks gather.
i saw the devil in the mirror & wept – for I was an angel then.
even the mumbling, cowardly crows refused me.
i was dancing in the sand storm & eating rotten fruit from fallen trees.
under the moon, the prophets whispered, consuming the sound of silence.
the broken tambourine whistled brightly & out of tune.
all was remade anew within a ruby-wound octagon.

our revolution has made its way to the shore.

our turn on the gears has finally arrived.

it has already begun.

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