Blue bonfires spat south, the phosphorescent tendrils of mother medusa, solid ages of an Alien Antartica. Entering your walls, shifting and shaking, the potency of solitude. The ruined blood, hemispheres lament, the terrorizing clouds, filling the sky. Churning the stars with black-fire-light, your continents sheared off your shoulder. A harsh rage touched by summers-winter, as the beacon is blown out.
Inspired by: Pablo Neruda while listening to If These Trees Could Talk, words taken and rearranged with my own from Leviathan by Neruda.
Image by: Joni Niemela