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The Cult of Sheep

Barlow’s eyes are shimmering, the light a sinuous display of  something towing beneath. His smile pious-like, marked with an etiolated kindness, this precarious softness and this mark of an adulterating isolation that only those who’d experienced can recognize. A secret for the initiated. But Barlow is not a monk, he is dashing in his blacksuit… Continue reading The Cult of Sheep

All Works · Poetry

Hollow

Feed me my cracked heart I scoffed the soot, I drank it all Churned it all. Burned like ash, Breathed like earth, Cracked like hearth. Peeling. Hollow. Find me, A sharpened knife A daggered grave, An endless grief. Straining. Hollow.