Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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The molten terror. The nuclear show. Frightening aspect laid low. A parallax image of love wasted, affections spent like the coils of a rusted electric stove. My heat’s for show, brilliant spectrums christening newly formed skies and haunting past ones, corrupting them with windbroken charms and the debris of earnest efforts. Because the anger is an explosion in alleged Heavens, the craning of a neck unavoidable like the strewn remains of roadkill hugging hot macadam. Where serenity postures, with arms and legs left limp with bliss, the ferocious Hells storming within every sunrise invite! Fresh day begins! And yet those minutes where smiles tease cheeks are fleeting. They die and bare belly to futures both brilliant and ugly; the destructive leak of love’s split atoms. May every new death come quick, with a camera flash burn and the ash of memory scattered by gusts of acceptance.  (at Each Tiny Hell)

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