I am a liar of my craft.
Here is the world, and there I see
hung vertically down the empty walls
long black hair, shining and
knotted every few feet down
pooling on the floor like tar.
Oil never meant to burn, now
staining the rug.
And now I hear the orchestra
from far down below, echoing
across a valley outside somewhere.
And I want to be religion,
and these are my myths.
YOU ARE READING
Dead Orchestras
PoetryA random assortment of poems with no particular running theme or plot. This will serve as the hub for most of my stand-alone poetry.
