The saffron pallor of humid doubt clings to the tendrils of our words, a death destined in the glare of August sunset. Empty syllables mimic the falsehood of truths we refuse to touch, though our tongues smudge the lines of hope and apathy. Once, our naked souls danced in twilight synchronicity, realism dipped in eroticism. Still naked, we now hide in shrouds of invisible ink.
©08/2019
Whiskey Tales and Spells 