I didn’t feel well yesterday, so I played around with some online magnetic poetry. Unfortunately, the save process went awry and I was unable to save an image of my work. Thankfully, I kept a not-so-redundant copy on word.

 

 

            The Migraine
                 or
        Ground Exceeding Small

The black symphony beats 
    beneath a stormy sky;
  sordid music calls for blood
    in harsh and crushing language, 
      recalling a thousand deaths 
       lathered red with rusty shot.

I whisper shadowy chants but am not mad;
    I lie screaming in the forest rain
       watching frantic waters.

 

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