I hold my head up to the sky,
the blood
pours down
my arms
and I feel the bristles of my hair tickle
my finger tips.
Eye sockets are empty of eyes, but full of sight.
Sand slowly dribbles down my lips and ants crawl out of my ears.
On gaurd.
Touche.
The orchestra plays with the bones of ours fathers, the hairs of our mothers, and the hips of our brothers.
I yawn.
Slope = mx+b. |
Submission Name: Poland on EYEce Skates
