Diary Entry: 071; 1826

Kevlar ruins

You prefer day

old bread

The smell of 

dirt when it's

sour

Poplars

You trickle out

When there is laughter

the mouth opens 

What soft fires

A dungeon 

Dressed in corpses 

I dance with 

Shadows on the wall

Echolocation

Sweet syrup oozing

from fresh bark

I pull your insides 

out again

You trickle in

when there is sobbing

Sunflower crowns

upon our heads

Flaky pastries 

The night is most

dangerous for us 

Volva cloaked in

disguised flesh 

Alabaster skin molted

into gnarled parchment 

I retreat into 

myself

There is no end.