Gowns Fake July
When we die, a never ending summer, immersing in last
july. When our savior slides down a mountainside,
bringing down our houses. If you remain firmly believing
in every single word. He will take you aside, you can
smother desperation like like a huge, sick bird. Promise
of salvation hovering overheard. When we die, they f..ck
you so completely. They twine, circle 'round, never quite
touching down. Cast your fishes's stone to the sky. They
try. Short man, hair thinning, shot glass clutched,
forgotten his left hand. Short man, hair thinning,
forgotten his left hand, shot leaning against the door.
