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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