A wicked wind whips me front and back
As I walk thread-bare ‘cross a granule prickled shore
Into a blackening night.
A night to conceal and not reveal that ancient secret borne on stone
Which looms in all its fantastic hue,
Tag: love
Victorians Don’t Pierce Their Septums, Except for Love, Poetry by Aaron Schultz
When I first saw you in those light
plaid pants, tight fitting to your form,
my friends wanted to kick your ass. “Where
did this Bozo come from? Let’s waste
him,” they said. But that smell… Your smell…
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