The first snow had fallen, shrouding the small village in a freezing silence. The gray sky hung low, as if the world had paused at an eternal standstill.

first fall, to the tops of the trees, and seeds are not meant for harvesters

The Three Endings, Spooky Season, and 11/6/24 with unapologetically passive voices and prepositional endings

There's something about you and I can't stand it, I can't escape you.

dribb ling  grape juice. rust on my  palm, rust of my fingers pulverised  and putrefied by the sisyphian cycle of spinning  i am destined to

Blossoms called destiny, made of sorrow Or the will and desire one's mind portrays.

doppel gänger  of the blue bar above us,  unfathomable cruising its veins,

Star shaped hands touch Earth and crumble dirt, Planting stars with seeds.

She was looking for a temple, one that she can call home. One day, she thought she had found it.

Helen of Sparta prays to Persephone. She runs her fingers along the thirsty stem of a pale poppy and prays.

The fallen and the risen, twins;  Born as heralds of a new world. 

"Fate can often linger in the mind. But like water rippling away from a droplet, it never forgets."

Orpheus would be known for his melodies and his melancholy. What the poets and the tales didn't carry through history was his rage.

If dreaming turns you immortal, in your presence I remain unaltered. To make this chimera eternal I would face Lucifer

Zephyrs of the season have come, inviting the shadows to dance, A silent orchestra playing, for a suitable companion.

May a lucky one in blood for her dream get a chance. These are not mad Bacchicantes, nor wild nymphs, Now, they ask for their Ichor sips

You haven't killed yourself because you'd have to commit to a single exit.

"I'd driven through Peculiar, Missouri once before... that infernal town whose horrors will haunt me in these last few hours of my life."

A poem in the shape of a spine and ribs attached, written to be narrated from the sacrifice of the cultish ritual of splitting one open.