Nov 30, 2020
“These weary palpebra upon these weary eyes; And through the moss, the bier, where my heart within the ivies creep, From the craggy ledge, the celandine hangs, in aestivate, inside an awoken grave of my heart. That ruthless/ its attire, that tainted, bruised in shams, in decibels of echoes spoken in ghost syllables. That marred, that broken that it will just like just a clangor, just a gamut of a breaking glass would send shivers down the spine of all humankind.”
— Channing H.M, The Monochrome of Darkness
