Zdzislaw Beksinski

He held her close, caressing her skull.
A whisper in the air, a lullaby for her hair.
“Fear not honey, the world just got a bit too sunny.
“Sleep now, for I am here, my dearest dear.”

She wrapped her legs around him, eager, tender, and much care.
Arms around his neck, arms around his back—intimate, shared.
“Baby, it’s hot outside, but why can’t I see the light?
“Will we die?”
He said, “Aye.”

His arms squeezed on her waist, there it stayed.
And then it happened, in a millionth of a second,
A tale unspoken, for the heat had soaked in.
Evaporated instantly, their clothes, hair and skin.
Their lives had been, now laid bare and thin.

Dust, shadow, and shade,
and orange too, wrap around the statues.
Too warm, the apocalypse needs more blue.
For it's sad, and true,
Death's no more dread when she is with you.

Other dark poems:

Weeper glass

The Bent Nail

Demon in her(my) ears - also prompted by Cody.

Subscribe now

Share WordSilo

Leave a comment

Verika’s memories poured into Regboren’s subconscious like a tunnel, where the wall exposed fragments of the warrior queen’s mind. Amidst the chaos of echoing memories, Verika’s thunderous scream shook the mind-path, her wrath a tempest, but Regboren remained a stubborn hanging bridge. It sauntered comfortably, its footing not affected by the wobbling tunnel of a raging mind.

Get out of my head, foul demon!

I’m no demon. I’m a reflection charged by the Enmavi to experience the world.

Find someone else.

You are the only one worth watching.

I do not consent.

Consent, the word sounded wrong in Regboren’s mind. In its understanding, Enmavi asked and it obeyed. That was the way.

I won’t hurt you. Let it be.

The mind-path held still, as if Verika had surrendered.

Then, rumble raised beneath and around, rhythmic and ramped up. The tunnel shrunk, compressing into a cage where only one memory remained. It shone bright, not a single big bright light, but tiny millions. Strings being pulled, the wood groaned under the force of Esgard’s magical arrows. Verika appeared behind her own memory, commanding the weapon she feared the most. The air didn’t hiss like arrows, it exploded like gunpowder as the projectiles broke from the wall of memory towards Regboren.

Teal lights punctured through the reflection element, leaving only ripples without a sound. Before Verika could muster another round, Regboren raised its hand, touching the wall of her memory. It seeped through the mind’s cage effortlessly, then appeared right in front of Verika’s avatar hiding in the memory.

You don’t have to try, nothing will work against me. I am invincible. As if to prove its point, the crossbows cavalry dispersed into sploshes of puddles.

I do not consent. Another memory wall appeared, yet carried something more, something absolute and terrifying. Verika pressed her own blade to her throat. I’ll end myself before letting you walk my mind. But if you want to experience the world with me, I’ll allow you to stick on my blade.

Your blade? Regboren—in Verika’s shape—frowned.

Yes, it cuts through everything. You will see more worlds through the blood of my enemies.

Hooker? What does it mean?

A whore, for I will pay every price to get my due.

A goal similar to mine… I agree.

Verika found herself sitting on her butts; Hooker laid three feet before her. She caught a quick glimpse of its glow, as if Regboren just merged with it. She snorted, pulling herself up. For a brief moment, she considered leaving Hooker there but the potential of having an alien ally with unlimited power pulled her feet forward. She picked up the crooked dagger, feeling a strange chill that was both strange and familiar.

You chose well. Regboren’s voice echoed in the middle of her eyes.

Verika’s breath hitched. This entity was testing her honesty, a thing she had learnt to hide, to compromise, or even denied in the face of anyone, sometimes even to herself. Another moment passed, she sheathed the dagger, deliberately shut off any further contact with the rainy bitch. These arrows were her greater concern for she alone couldn’t win a war, and to ask people to die for her without giving them the best equipment was something she could never live with. She wrapped six arrows into her bedroll, carefully enough that none would touch another.

The magical energy felt different, now that she had fully controlled her body, like a mind’s eye had been opened in her body. She could see the connection now, from the concentration to the distillation and the routes of those energy traveled. She traced every thread of them. Her mind recalled the thunderous sound, the deadly silence, and the drilling impact on the armor as the magic despoiled it.

Splosh. The sound she heard but couldn’t respond to. The insight had captured her mind.

“Mistress,” the voice of captain Haryuk rang behind her, “I’m sorry.”

The sound of blade screeching against the grinding stone of the scabbard prickled the hair on her neck. Haryuk—one of her most trusted captains, a seasoned warrior who never spoke when it was not necessary—had betrayed her. A trap, she realized too late, a paralysis woven into the arrow’s very design, meant for anyone who deciphered its secret. The moment she found the secret was also the moment it was buried with her, with her head part from her body.

She could hear the air whizz as Haryuk raised the blade. In a blink of an eye, she would die. Verika screamed in her mind. Take me!

And so Regboren did. It drew Hooker upward, bashing the dead promise of Haryuk’s sword away. Verika felt her legs pivot in a way she had never seen before, more fluid but unnatural, and she doubted that it had severed a tendon or two. She saw it in Haryuk’s eyes too.

The betrayer, after regaining balance, frowned at the awkward movement. Widen from being surprised, his eyes sparkled at his own revelation that Verika was still under the spell, then narrowed to two killing cold lines. He gripped his blade tightly and posed a stance Verika had taught him—the one that aimed for the throat, the one that left your own torso open. With a sharp bellow, he charged.

Give me back my body, now! Verika screamed in her mind. She knew Regboren would lose, and that meant she would die.

The spell petrifies your neurons.

Verika watched Haryuk closing distance. Her mind raced for the answer to save her stumbling body. Parry, left, right, head, keep retreating.

Roll left, keep running until I can act.

Haryuk is left-handed. Leap and bounce on the right.

Despite all of her calculations, Regboren wasn’t ready. When her body leapt and landed, it slipped. The flash of Haryuk’s blade descending forced a scream from her mind to her throat. Let me, “Out!”

Verika grabbed the tip of Hooker, holding it in both hands. Then it glowed, a golden rim of light at the edge of the wicked dagger. Weapons clashed, and Hooker slid through the descending sword as if it was a piece of leather. A sharp pain punctured right into Verika’s rib as the broken sharp landed deep beneath her flesh. She swirled Hooker above her head. Normally, there would be a slight stop as the blade cut through bones, but this time, nothing.

Haryuk screamed a short scream, then fell on top of her. The dagger pierced through his torso—and Verika twisted it, twice. The smell of the traitor burning flesh filled her nostril.

Previous

Subscribe now

Share

Leave a comment

Demon, demon in wicked reflection,
How dare you scare an innocent maiden?
I shan't let my beloved betaken,
“Step aside, dear.” I break the inception.

Demon, demon screams in the reflection,
A morphing against a knight of pagan.
I cast holy light—demon lay dormant,
I grab her, humming the morning lection.

“God has mercy,” I whisper to her ear,
Shaking and cold—black and white, her gown's pure.
My heart is pounding, rhyming with her fear.
I say, "fret not, my love, for I am here."
She grabs, she bites, she makes the kill so sure,
“Stupid knight,” she smears, smiling ear to ear.

“Reflection” by: 1dontknows_

Some other poems:

Weeper Glass

The Bent Nail

Subscribe now

Share WordSilo

Leave a comment

I.

Eighteen years of age, two boys found courage
To pursue love, they hurry to spring dance
Red dusk, blue stream, an oasis took a stance
Lanterns hung like fruit for summer forridge

The drums beat fast across emerald mile
Both eyes on her, plum cheek, and gown of plume
“Lady Fany, your father seek a groom,”
Talking less, they dance for her angel smile

He buy her feast and paid to gesture love
But she sees the younger one, free of guile 
They dance and smile for hours, two souls above
Firstborn, first time lost, he can’t admit of
But gold is king; the merchant set the style
And bought her youth to crown his bitter love.

II.

The worn gold survived his bitter hourage
Her heart’s locked, faded to distant desert miles
A bought bride who gave a ghost in her smile
Still, she walked the halls and served daily porridge

Through trade and blood and years of silent forridge
He sought the truth across the sand for a while
To mask his doubt with wealth and hollow style
And to pay the debt of their unhappy hourage

Three sons she bore through agony and love
Three faces—smiles, pouts, and glare like him in the glass
Three vendors offering, but one he deems worthy of
Weeper glass, for his funeral will show ultimate love
Alas, the dice for their unhappy life were cast
“Saruk et tuk,” shall complete his final dreaming of.

III.

On the casket of flower, first fire licks his pyre
His wife, barefoot, hollowed cheeks, white plume gown
Black crown under her eyes, furrows on her brows
Body still, but his spirit’s free, seeking the love and the liar

Say the words, and I shall be free, he whispers,
You should have forgotten him, forty years’ a while
Three boys and a fortune, I left, but you never smile
One true, to mend arranged marriage’s fissure

“Saruk et tuk.” The obsidian glass folds and glows
Three sons were his, faithful, but her love—
shines where his brother is—as above, so below
Saruk et tuk, he accepts what he already know
“Saruk et tuk,” she speaks again, content, and with love
He turns to ash, for the weeper glass finally shows.

So this is me trying to learn/adapt to Italian sonnet form. A lot of lines couldn’t follow the pentameter, and the rhythm scheme is a little breaking from the form. I do: ABBA CDDC EFE EFE in part 1. Then in part 2 & 3: ABBA ABBA CDC CDC… but breaking the pentameter.

My other dark/gothic poem: The Bent Nail

Subscribe now

Share WordSilo

Leave a comment

I.

He returns from swords and steel, hand holding a bride anew.
His old wife cries, still, singing a lullaby.
“A bastard,” he accuses
—to save face, he keeps the babe.
His wife, though, he throws away
in the dirt behind the mansion wall—of vermin, shackles, and crimson clay.

II.

Six decades of breathing, now silenced in a coffin.
Six undertakers to carry the weight of a man’s sin.
And the son—the one he said “not mine”—stands at the head,
the only mourner left.
Is the savior really my father?
The soil doesn’t care for the young man’s doubts,
only for the old body drowned in stout.

III.

Sixteen years of fists and smears
left scars unclear,
only a cold map of broken mind,
of ice, of love never appears.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
thrice a nail—
eighteen—
redeem a father’s sin.
Each blow rang through wood and bones,
now free from the reach of iron knouts.
Behind a wall in the mansion’s stone,
his mother’s screams crack all gouts.

IV.

Six feet under, a father fades from matter.
Key loose in hand, son borrows a sledgehammer.
Whack—
a final whacking, rattling the entire coffin.
Deep under,
the last bent nail—crooked by hatred and unloving hand—
no more, nothing stands.
Iron knows a marrow’s taste,
A curse's never a waste.
“May earth hold what heart could not.
May your spirit stay tethered to the rot.
Six feet under, stay forever,
in the dark, forever lost.”

V.

Six days the father returns in nightmare, as if he ever cares,
standing at the bed’s leg, face pale, eyes stare.
A lullaby the son barely hears.
Daddy doesn’t sing, but still, it’s ringing.
Bent nail throbs beneath six feet of soil;
each dream pass, a nail despoils
—coffin inches high, lid misaligned.
Dead man whispers, “Bastard still.”
Rotting fingers scratch, screeching.
The son wakes with iron on his tongue—a sermon's missing.

VI.

Seven days to reckoning, the house sloughed haunting.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Not from the grave—but from the walls. “Ahl,”
the son exhales; down the stairs to hidden cell.
His stepmother’s cry long folded into a lullaby;
floorboards creak with the weight of six.
No mourners, only a son kneeling in the corner
of a remnant—dangled, shackled, unable to say goodbye
—in a chest it’s contained.
“Mother,” he greets in disdain.

VII.

“Bastard,” she whispers. “I’ll rest in your father’s grave.”
“No, no, no. You’ll lie where my mother died,” he says.
A letter, she finally throws his way—through crimson clay, vermin, and shards of broken glass.
The words brittle as old bone; handwritten, crisp, and wrinkled.
Old wound opens like a mouth, a life-eater.
Son reads until his scars bleed into soul ledgers.
How many times shall I forgive? Up to seven?
Don’t count, not even mention.
To hold grudges is to deny compassion.
Burn the ledger, 
as is your anger.

VIII.

“You don’t know what he did to me. You don’t know what I’ve done to be free.”
“Release the debt”—she begs—
“He no longer owes your future.”
The son looks at the iron maiden, blood streams like a red garden.
Seventh day.
The war a father couldn’t bury, grudges a son couldn’t parry.
“I’m sorry.”
With her released, he carries the hammer down.
The grave is quiet now; even the ghosts wait.
He kneels, finger at the dirt, fingers at the nail—bent, rusted, and failed.
Forgiveness.
One strike to name the pain.
One strike to forgive the boy who could not fight back.
One strike to forgive the man who never learned how.
The nail, unbent, unbroken.
The son, unbowed.
Six feet under, the father is released—
not to heaven, but to peace, for all is forgiven.
The son stands, hammer heavy in his hand,
with a heart tainted and torn.
He musters the courage to face his father’s ghost
“Stay forever… no more.”

Subscribe now

Share WordSilo

Leave a comment

“Mama. Wh–” Kerrigan sobbed. Her small little limbs wriggled before her eyes, rinsing off tears.

Verika stopped twirling the little girl’s hair, letting her gauntlet hand rested lightly on her step-daughter’s shoulder. “This is us, child. The world isn’t kind to the weak. You, a princess, are not allowed to be weak. Look at it!”

Kerrigan shrieked, tugging her face on Verika’s thigh. Her hands reached for the Mistress of king Dryst the Second.

Verika caressed the princess’ head. Too harsh, too soon. She squatted, leveling her amber eyes with Kerrigan’s green. “You will lead Caerleon in my absence, I need you to face the nature of our power. Look.” She turned Kerrigan around, facing the aftermath of Caerleon’s newest conquest.

The sky sent its first wrath in the far horizon, right beneath the dark cloud of a raging thunderstorm. Even from miles away, cold gusts already reached the graveyard of the battle of Sorestan Stance. “Lightning bolts are our magic. Thunder is our wardrum. Death to the enemy is our melody,” Verika whispered.

She guided Kerrigan’s hand, pointing at the thousand corpses wearing all kinds of armor and clothes, all kinds of weapons from rakes, to spears, to swords, to shields. “We’ve waged three campaigns to claim this hill in the last ten years. I was a girl not much older than you now when I first joined.”

“But why? Couldn’t we be living in peace?”

“Esgard used this hill to raid our people for the last century, forty four times.” Verika couldn’t but remember the raid that made her an orphan. They spared her, letting her spread the terror; but they cut her brother’s throat when he refused to join them. “They cut your father’s tongue when he tried to reason with them, then they burned him along with your brother.”

Kerrigan’s body shifted, tensing and shaking at the same time. Her legs though, stood straight and strong. “I’ll hold the court, mama.”

Verika breathed in deep, nose stinging. She didn’t want this life for Kerrigan, but a country at war left no space for innocent breath. “Good. Your dad will be proud of you.” She stood up, letting Kerrigan’s stare linger at the desolation for a moment.

Then she signaled the escort party to take the princess back to the palace. The lesson would haunt her with nightmares for her entire life—Verika knew it, for everynight, she dreamt of her lost twins.

“My queen,” the royal guard said as he approached. He was Sothe the thief before, but now Sothe the Quicksilver, her retainer. She’d seen him grow from a self-served savage to an honorable man, unbound by a big family name and its ambition. “Are you going back with us?”

“I’m no queen,” Verika said. She turned around with her blade slightly twitched. “Kerrigan E’basa is Caerleon’s rightful queen.” She handed him a sealed scroll. “Take it to Duke Wulfgar. The content inside could only be read by his eyes.”

He nodded, sliding the scroll under his armband. The scars on his strong jaw had led him to more ladies in the court than his liking. Verika often reminded him that he should be brave in seeking the warmth of a woman rather than the cold of iron. He never listened. “My liege, I should stay by your side, always,” he said.

“The princess needs your protection more than me.” Verika tapped his shoulder. ‘Wulfgar needs an experienced man by his side. Go, I’ll be fine.” As she said that, the gust stopped completely.

As the royal convoy left the field of Sorestan Stance, Verika sheathed her blade and turned toward the storm. The nobles will try to marry their blood into the royal, good, let them compete with themselves. Wulfgar would make sure it happened within his control while sending coins for her war effort. The thought of his face brought a rare smirk on her ever frowning bronze face. She couldn’t marry him before, even harder now with Dryst’s gone, for their combined influence would make the entire aristocracy turn against them.

She walked the aftermath, her troops in black cloak were busy cleaning. Spears up, spears down, they spared no survivors. Her golden cloak healers were busy retrieving Caerleon’s bravest. Their groans mixed with the dying moans from the enemy—she ignored them all. Her heart and mind narrowed to strategies that would minimize casualty in the incoming war. Rain started falling, furiously, accompanied by flashes of silver and red behind the grey sky.

Esgard crossbow cavalry had been the terror of every skirmish. She had studied the design for years, but still couldn’t find the secret of the mechanism. Three consecutive shots before reload, and reload only took them two breaths. They shot into the sky or right to your eyes, all the same effect, death. The magic imbued in the arrow dispersed on impact, leaving no trace of its spell formation. She only won this battle by the sacrifice of a decoy force to lure them into the muddy terrain. For the invasion to succeed, she had to recreate these magical arrows.

There, at a hole she dug before the battle, hoping that softer impact wouldn’t trigger the magic, laid hundreds of Esgard’s nightmares. A few were still glowing teal. A lighting bolt tore the sky above, so close that the earth shook on impact. Verika jumped into the hole, her eyes couldn’t keep away from the teal glow. This would show Esgard they messed with the wrong mother. This would avenge her twin. This would complete her.

Regboren, a name but not a name, an identification for my existence. I was here and I was there, then I wasn’t. How was I born? I already forgot. Enmavi, an echo rang deep beneath my emptiness, anchoring my loneliness.

Travelling through glinting dust, I found a bigger dirt. Light receded, I flew into something white, soft and kind. They took shape, then they didn’t, much like my existence. I showered with them, bathing in their embrace, feeling their grace. Then I saw their rage.

Under the flow, the dirt reflected its own echo. Heat, something I’d forgotten for a long time, raised beneath. Gentle at first, but stuck under the dome of gravity fusion within the core of this dirt. The white blackened, condensed, then as nature progressed self cleansing, droplets of water fell.

I fell with them, letting myself be carried by the cycle of this world. I remembered my mission now as I was dispersed and reformed. The Enmavi didn’t say it in words out loud, but an urging, a reflection to everything. It wanted me to learn about the worlds beyond its own. It was my mother and my father, my brother and my sister, it was me. I was part of it and now I learnt.

Dropping on the leaves, I was absorbed by the roots. When the tree fell, I left the dirt and back to be myself with the cloud.

Dropping on the ocean, I saw creatures so big, then bigger, meaner, then biggest, but in slumber. I left the salt water and back to be myself with the cloud.

Dropping on a mountain creek, my descent flashes with animals eating other animals, animals eating leaves, and an animal walking on two legs eating everything else. These animals, these beasts, didn’t have claws nor fangs, no strength nor speed, but they had speech. They formed together, sharing stories and experiences, and they became masters of this world.

I watched them closer now, lingering in the stream to look at their faces. These creatures brought so much destruction but felt the most grievance. This contrast became my addiction, I could tell they would be the completion of my mission.

I returned to the sky once again, and when I fell, something happened. Lightning bolt struck me once, it struck me twice, thrice. Then I was trapped in a muddy pond. I couldn’t hear Enmavi’s calling amidst the cries of people dying. Their red water filled me up with emotions I couldn’t name. Then I felt her, a woman dressed in leather. Her ambition, her hatred, her determination, all of her being focused on me.

No, it wasn’t me. It was the energy imbued on the arrow’s tip next to me. Was it envy that drove me up to meet her, I didn’t know. I remembered taking her shape. But she didn’t flee, she stood there, measuring me. In her eyes, I saw me. Then the Enmavi urged me to be with her.

Verika stared at the shape of herself, rising slowly from the muddy pond of blood, and piss and shit. Was it the magic within the arrows? No. It was something else, something divine. “What are you?”

“Regboren of Enmavi,” it said, sounded like a gurgle learning to speak human.

“Verika of Ula’ao.” She pointed at her chest. Her hand already slid to the hilt of the Hooker, her blade. “What. Are. You.”

As the water took the shape of Verika herself. It tilted its head toward the blade. “No need. Nothing can kill me.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to use your eyes to–”

Verika dashed forward. Hooker flashed an arc and the neck of the bruised water. Imbued by meteorite ore, it could cut through everything she had ever encountered. The head parted from the body, but it didn’t fall. Glinting in between, something held them together. Then it pulled the head back. Verika rolled backward, then dashed away. Water seeped into her boots.

“You misunderstand. I want to see the world through your eyes,” Regboren said. Its voice was clearer now, almost identical to Verika.

She spat. “Possess me, you mean.”

“No. More like… a parasite. I’m there to experience what you experience.” Regboren started walking towards Verika.

“No thanks.”

“You have no choice. Enmavi has chosen you.”

Before Verika could react, the mud water reflection of her engulfed her into a suffocating bubble.

My ongoing series:

Mark of a Herald

The Long Siege

Oops! Some writer note:

Original premise:

On the blood-soaked fields of a dying world, Verika E’sasa killed the survivors to find peace. Then, she found a mirror.

Merged with a rain spirit that now bleeds when she bleeds, Verika navigates a journey through the wreckage of her own past. With Morph acting as her conscience, her weapon, and her ghost, she seeks a lost child in a world that no longer remembers her name.

Idk how it turns out to be this chapter. There’s some rough edges I already see I could do better, maybe later.

This story will be stuffed into the corner till I finished editing Mark of a Herald.

Leave a comment

Share WordSilo

Subscribe now

In silver flat, mirroring life, 
What happens to a dead person's eyes?
They leave life, purest form lay still
Captured clear in silver flat hue
What of the living that blurred in behind?
They breathe, burdened still
Yet dead eyes moving instead
Trapped in the process of leaving
You stare long enough 
Circuit connecting rough
Does it want my life?

Farewell—Barrel on fire.

Black smoke wraps around my white shirt,
a farewell, not a rebirth.
Spiritual bribe for safe travel,
a blessing from a heart unraveled.
In this flame I see no vision,
for my heart has been unbroken.
Just rust and heat and a low, wet hiss,
of a ghost retuning his last kiss.

A poem for A mark of Herald - Episode 1

The Sear hums,
Blue eyes stare back.
A dear future's sold for Solfire,
A nightmare returns from hollow prayers,
Chains and Blood. The brooch lies broken.
A shadow wearing a rhys’s smile whispers a killing spree,
The cage swings, a woodman flying free.
In the furnace heart a gray egg pulses, 
From a confused heart, arise a new resolve.
The Sear hums,
Death's eyes stare back.

Let’s stack some more with Mark of a Herald palms/threnody/prayers

One Light Kindling

“Blessed art thou, devotees of the Onelight,
the lifekeeper, champion of the Just.
Wrought in fire, raised from the ashes, 
the eternals, forever praised in the Chants.”

Safe travel

“Inside the Sear, I pray. 
Shroud me with health, fill me with strength, banish illness that may enter my body. 
May the light guide my path, reveal the dangers, and lead me home. 
Blessed art thou, I bathe in your golden glow. 
Inside the Sear, I pray to thee.”

Threnody of the Hallow Church

“No Sol reaches for your warmth. No crows feast on your mortal form,
No plague curses your domain, bring forth husk of dominion. 
Only us, the ashen warriors. Only us, the devoted shepherds,
Only us and his true flame, sets forth your righteous path.”

History of Sahada

Leaves of ink, roots of might, elders whispered through the night.
But greed awoke the outer call, Makaiel's breath, the endless fall.
As Zul’drak claimed the shade, Myrmidons fell, the Descent was prayed
The Second Sun burned their blackened earth, sealed our fate, gave us rebirth.
But in the embers, thorns may creep,
Guard the light, lest shadows reap.

A hymn after long travel

O Sol above,
Burn away what hides from sight.
Cleanse the false, enshrine the true,
Light the heart of every Suledin too.
By flame, we kneel; by fire, we rise, 
Ashes drift, pyres never die.
Grant us will, and grant us flame,
That all may burn in Sol’s own name.

(This is for Ianc, my protag), tagged by Stefan Pasek.

Into the hollow of my chest,
A fire ignite,
Not fierce, nor bright,
A heat barely warm in the endless night.
I walk beneath hunger and terror,
The gods I serve aren’t mentors,
The path I walk isn’t meant for,
May my fire linger,
Oh light, please reach my yearning finger.

Micro-fiction,

1. A headache hammers on my head when I wake up. I check, rolling my neck, clacking my teeth, massaging my eyes, everything hurts, probably a flu.

Ignoring all, I burst into morning routine. My mom, my aunts, my uncles, all cloudy in their moves. Is it really a flu?

Thermometer, blood pressure, daily medicine hours, checked. Then the sun finally shines. It’s just a new season. Too much pores from wild flowers.

2. I wake up with a slight pain on the the otherside of my left ankle.

Then I walk. Then I goes down stair.

Something hidden behind the stair stab my ankle again.

Oh ho ho, I didn’t fall.

I grab the shadow skinny a** goose neck and tell it to behave.

This is my dungeon. Now you pay rent!

It still cry in the corner when I left the house to work.

Sorry guys, this wasn’t supposed to be sent. Well, it’s going to be an ongoing collection so I’ll update it accordingly then.

May the muse cascade upon you!

Subscribe now

Share Hai Dang

Leave a comment