by Alison Ross
In my death I wander, plagiarizing the stars and mimicking the moon. My shrouded history unravels in the tunnels of time, eaten up by spiders with clockmarks on their backs.
In my death I meander through mirrors that reflect the void of my face. My eyes dissolve into black holes that contain multitudes of nothing.
In my death I wander, meandering through stars that plagiarize clocks in a shrouded sky. Spiders unravel the moon, mimicking history and voiding my eyes.
Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Monday, July 2, 2018 - 11:05