by Whitney Raiken
A man, haunted; some loch ness madness lurking beneath the scruffy surface. Rolling stones trip broken bones, a stitch won’t darn this time. Abandoned, a breath of freedom desired away from the fires of Hell. A disciplined panther stalking with bated breath; pounce, or pursue no further. Anguished cries, darkening eyes. My favorite zest. You are too beautiful for iron bars, even incarcerated amongst the stars which you outshine.
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