The moon spills mercury on thorn and stem with fingers that plucked the tightest budof pimento dark red roses — and now the night is a slow unbuttoning of wings of love and algebra as the wind hums lazy...

The Hidden Watchers always knewthere would come a silence before the shift...a paradigmnot of peace, but of pressure, as if the very air knows the future is inhaling the machines hum like prophets, the earth quakes like memory ...and somewhere between...

interesting fate, fickle with her fandomsome eat richly while it is famine for othersmy bloodlust under controla hunter of souls, I'm chaste of visionmy scarred inner terrain, is incessant with its hungerdamned the horde, who urges me to feedcaustic...