LightrayPhotography

Sitting in a field: Peer Pressure. Splitting skin to yield: Fear Pleasure. New grass swords slice/bite toes/knees. “You, pass me the white rose. Please?” Slip into my hand with ease. “Grip sin, so we stand sharp bees. Sip gin to free bland. The sleaze.” Snippin’ two stalks, while the breeze of blood ends talks of fake squeeze. “One,” we say, “the bust of veins. None betray the trust of pains.” Skin displays red rusted chains. “Dawn the day,” spread misted stains, ‘cross the sky bled twisted lanes. Gloss the eye, rush ruptured mains, sewage pipes spray, spirit wanes.