Author Archives: S. T. Brant

Internal Eden! I’ve herb’d thee since eviction without will. When the grand darkness comes, it will envelope with purséd lips, Inflated cheeks, swearing awful things, and as it’s near to lick its seal, This breed of eschatology will end me laughing. This night is specied with which abyss? the one that with shadows teem Or […]

There’s naught that succors skin- it consumes its wounds.
Alack! the soul! It beats, beats against its trunk and needs balm.