| *loolaville _poetry | |||||
| Another Untitled The last of October's leaves are falling gently. Me, not so gently. It's not the time or place to be giving into the sales pitches in the back of my mind. But I'm like a lone cattle roped in by some sort of spurred, big-bellied destiny and there's nothing I can do but situate myself inside right now with nowhere else to go for fear this offering of love (packaged sweetly in you) might pass me by. |
|||||
| back | |||||