Written by: E. N. Igma

Swallow emptiness, scars healed not, forever. Open the door! Greet the question that awaits, created in your own image. Construct artificial palaces and die slowly as you pretend that an answer will arrive. Where do all the poets go when scars cover throats choking out sweet breaths torn from pages of internal dialogue? Death scent lingers like putrid sunlight steeped in offal. Do they consume vacancy, puffer-fishing defenses in futility quills turned inward, piercing confidence while bleeding awkward truths? Silence closes doors drowned in apathy. Construct artificial palaces and die slowly. Created in your own image, greet the question that awaits. Open the door! Scars healed, not forever. Swallow emptiness.