The words I stitch together have become familiar.
The ones you sew have started fading.
Hushed up voices are no fire.
The quietness will keep us warm.
Crossing horoscopes of time isn't what everyone is capable of.
Or every combination.
Every sunset is more crimson.
Our bosoms beat crimson too.
Coincidence?
No.
Indifference?
That's the linear stretch of red entangled webs prediction is obsessed with.
-Ishura
YOU ARE READING
The Mist
PoetryA stroll down misty streets in the hilly terrains of poetry. Foggy nights on the radio. Every chapter is a standalone.
