Whiskey pages in the blanks of my space. I’m waiting for the headless man, to finish painting on my new face...

Speak of three, in love and quarrels. Sentiment is nary hushing my fall. Ripples of silence remind me that winds blow change. Telling more about the exact slice of a razors blade. Extruding from my smile is the excellence of vacancy. Glowing you, but I’m stitched in shades of ebony. Singing hymns of the days I’ve come to rue. Perpetually decaying in the each phase of the moon. Triangles bloom in the most dishonest of pines. As I remain goddess of the wastelands, I’ve created in my rhymes...

-HMG