From my poetry blog
Raw Mojo The bleak, blushes of dusk. A Highland wind licks at a heart, wrapped in leaves. Buried beneath a pine cone, needles. Drink 'til I can drink no more; just watch the dead impose in plagues. A girl, dark, unfamiliar, dares to draw the focus of these phantom scarred eyes, blood rushing in her alluring anonymity. A taste of ash, I eat my father. I am an amalgamation of anecdote and mannerism. Assimilated slow and left to boil. Magisterial day. Insouciant night. Sin suggests an arbitrator. I need a new translation, from the prophet's native tongue. ©AndrewJamesMurray
This would be great at a Poetry Slam with music playing in the background.
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You paint a good picture.
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