The red shred of linen cuts Mountains into halves and Dyes the sand crimson black, Burning holes into copper chests. Brackish wind, no, waves.   Tides can’t decide. They Run away only to come back. Dry water shimmery reflects Bulging eyes, singed black. Roasting jellyfishes. Die.   The air tight, sand collapse. Suffocating reds don’t…

This content is for Friends of Burningword 3-Day Pass, Friends of Burningword 3-Month Subscription, Friends of Burningword Annual Subscription, and Basic Member members.
Log In Register
%d bloggers like this: