Napkins Are Cold.

The cricking ticking wind watching the time,
Freezing the pockets of our softened crimes 

Massacres of this terrain burrow in the brain,

Judgement in the shadowed moon maintains

Against the warm Against the swarm,

Drinking in the frozen harms

Contained indisposed confined decomposed,

Across the whitened minuets untold

Napkins are cold.

Categories: Art, FunnyTags: , , , , , , , , ,

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