This cold November day Has thrown open its doors To see more of what it can do Across the fields I tread Towards a grey horizon Watched by clouds that loiter with intent.
My Inferno should be Yours Burn Till skin is crisp I want you to know my soul Under your feet As your march I want cacophonous wails And speed of fright A skull ripped from a seam
Bobby Halfway 23, slowly waking on Sunday morning wearing a face that doesn’t belong to him in a room he doesn’t recognise lying next to a woman he’s never seen before.