- Vol. 10
- Chapter 02
It was a gift
I pounded to pastel its softness
I took to turning, twisting, hoping.
Turning Left, turning Right.
Turn again Whittington thou unworthy
citizen. The bleed of red fills my weeping
I twist, contort, deform,
Oh the tortuous morphing to release
My crepuscular hold to wring one Lie
from the sealed lips of denial
before the year's end.