SinnedWolf

She's an enigma. her head, a stadium drowning with applause. yet its seats are empty like the notebooks where armies of words should be marching. instead she dismantles clocks thinking she can play with time. behind the mountains lurks a darker reasoning a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations hidden from the suns brilliance. Years alone beneath the bleached fluorescent reading those already dancing in the moonlight. she is living a literary half-life through them hiding from the symmetry of the writer. licking salty rocks of excuses. saving her secrets for posthumous excavation. decades of productivity left for moths to chew. you're throw