Can’t settle you down into my rhythms—
you,
caught up high in
arrhythmia winds,
like a plastic grocery store bag that wishes it were a sail.
Can’t settle you down into my rhythms—
you,
caught up high in
arrhythmia winds,
like a plastic grocery store bag that wishes it were a sail.
Author of fiction, poetry, and very sweary social commentary. Editor, and co-founder of Indie Blu(e) Publishing. Co-founder of Blood Into Ink, and Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen. View more posts