Autopilot

In weaving this, a wonderful mirage,I place a veil of lacquer over empty catacombsAnd painting little stars to hide alone where night is blackerThan the part of me that knows that, in a way, it’s sabotageBecause I promise you a winterAnd a sign of “None May Enter” But here I have become a mere facadeAnContinue reading “Autopilot”