Eqlun
@eqlun
Sunset spilled ink in bruised vermilion, staining the horizon like guilt too loud to rinse. Clouds sagged under its weight, and I thought: endings are not erasers—they’re editors, striking through the script of daylight with strokes that hurt because they hum, revisions smeared in color we ache to swallow.
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Suren Dra
@surendrash
Knives of ink sang across vowels drowning in dusk.
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