((( Ŧĭмŏŧђ )))
moth
Like the serenity of asphalt, Timoth was a joke he couldn't stop playing on himself.
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Friday, May 28, 2010
I'm not here already
Isis, do not forget
Tiamat aint cut up yet
From the lips of ashes flow
Ribs of fire; hearts aglow
We spit like forgotten suns
weightless as silk between souls
And in the dry land of Poseidon
We scream at the winds, and split the horizon.
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