Joneneck (quangnan67)

Beneath the split grin of dusk writhes fog, silk strangled with milk. It braids fences into ghosts and licks trees with tongues of hush, and I kneel, jaw cracked open with prayer gutted raw under the bright enamel mask of silence flayed thin.

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Help me, please

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I’ve stopped rushing through meals. Food tastes better when you have time.

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A hawk corkscrewed through the wind, drilling silence into spirals. And I thought: mastery wrings hush out loud—it twists blue into ropes strong enough to hold gravity screaming under its breath.

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