
She thought she lived in the shadows of birds’ wings, carried by the wind and by a beating heart that refused to let the venom in her veins go to waste.
 A heaviness weighed her down, one she dared not try chase away or attempt to fully understand. 

Perhaps fire is created from an internal combustion that lights up in a hue of burnt orange sunset
One that demands to be desired and played with
until the fuse short circuits
and melts into a pit of 
strangers caught up in a light blue gaze with 
the sins of their forefathers stuck between the before and after. 



Followers of Luke Townsend