The dead skin
flowers in the sun.
We twist and turn for hours,
not once knowing sleep.
So deep is this rancid truth,
so deep. And so we steep
in stewing blood, fingers
wrinkled and deformed.
-r. miller
So deep
Published
The dead skin
flowers in the sun.
We twist and turn for hours,
not once knowing sleep.
So deep is this rancid truth,
so deep. And so we steep
in stewing blood, fingers
wrinkled and deformed.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 
I love the preciseness of your words, and the almost perverse way you play with them.
Why thank you 🙂