of the storm.
Responsibility: a fairy tale
The blind, mad Oracle is everything I want to be. She’s alone, eats pine nuts from the comb and snatches yellow jackets out of the air like an orb spider. Her lips love poison and she cannot die because she is already dead. Her heart does not beat and she feels nothing she does not wish to. She gets to sit in her dappled, secluded grove, where there is always good weather and relax all day until someone like me comes along. Then and only then does she have to work, only then does she have to sift through the sparking grains of the void to find where the enemy lives. It’s me what has to go and kill it.
I’m thinking about expanding my micro poem a day thing to micro fiction and poetry. Just so I can keep myself entertained.
a crisp, unopened
cold in the morning
Note: it’s a first draft and I’m not good with rhyming so don’t hate me 😂
guitar string dreams
Even though her hands are old
She still rips flesh apart.
Note: not in a murdery way, in a cooking way.