DraconianAngel

the smell of olive. it happens in the interest of soaking away reverie underneath swarthy flutter  if at last you want to (vanish) under the ghost-  ly va-  le abandon her encounter. smell of burnt ochre                                                                worse                than the saddened countenance -- her innermost artifact  if the frequent exchange of memory's swiggling away, scare off vines  that tangle trussed hair. smell of horseradish. black  milkbog undamning a bitter river's solidarity  the sound of ghostflutter.