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...a deathly serenade...

...a Painter... a Poet... a Prose Stylist... xxx

...a Painter... a Poet... a Prose Stylist... xxx

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...but more pressing: who's to say that I'll die, though

the precipice seems rather close, with the breath of

wonderment I might ask the sky if it wants me..? it

could need me..? so perhaps it's best if I go, and arrive

to here again perhaps maybe as a butterfly with purple

wings spiraling into the ether...

...along with chimney smoke...

...the gentle romance of death, red lipstick on white

skulls drunk out of, like those Aghori...

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