Dark souls know a sanctuary
of estival melancholia;
Where the sun burns to sadness.
We are not picayent...
We pray to the Horsefly.
(Lord, help us)
He lights a cigarette in a church cemetery. Breathing in the nocturnal summer air, lungs filling with yesterday.
The memory seized him once again, but it was gone in a haze of smoke.
©an_odd_who
A