wizzardofdawn

The killing season is upon us again - our sons gone underground, our trees become weapons and the last bloom of our youth laid bare by carrion. In town the men all ask for cigarettes - the nicotine on their breath stalking new prey as it mingles in the streets and tries to look indifferent. The women wear handkerchiefs like bandages wrapping their heads; and from the buildings stream white flags and sheets, warning the children there are vacancies below the surface. Our houses do not recognize us - we leave the doors open while the windows look disinterested and the gardens starve. But we shall collect wounds thi