December 12, 2011 12:48:56 PM
:
Sarah
:
The Torturer’s Song
It’s practice, not hatred, that steadies the hand on the other end of the cigarette’s burning kiss. The heart’s wires stripped electric, I fine tune the sun and tighten the strings until the man is taut, singing secrets that aren’t his. Eyes branded with stars, you want to know where God is? Look up at that ravenous moon. He’s locked up too.
Comments [1]
It's killing me that I can't edit this (formatting threw me for a loop)
The Torture's Song is the title. It should read as
The Torturer's Song:
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