Status:
Finished |
Genre: Other |
House:
Booksie Classic
Laughing spirit.
Demise on your tongue.
Through the brush you crawl in the twilight.
"Little child, where are your fathers?"
"As one I have come as many.
My fathers twisted in time. Deceived me."
"Child, your pupils on fire. What brings you
to this grave?"
"The taste of iron. The foul blood from my
fathers' mead."
Hurry now.
© Copyright 2018 Lowkey. All rights reserved.
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