Arts
This is her farewell. Her, mere mortal, pinned against those lovely lovely bones... And she didn't think, the dark dirt would feel so... warm against bruised skin that reeks of uninvited atrophy that hangs like a mantle, on a wall, in some home.. And she'd like to think of herself so worthy that maybe she'd live long enough... To hunt the hunter and hang his head on a wall... And in that darkness she remembered breath and solitude's impassive purveyor But I'm not ready, I'm not ready... But don't you know lovely human, so certain of your demise what is death to the dead, but another rising tide? Wake up...