Left out in the unromanticized. Clawing out by moss on tree back. Witches at your feet every night and you ain’t had a bite to eat in days. You wear the cold like armor now, as not animal will eat stiff meat. The shadow you cast is a shroud of pain that’s cursed to your visage versus sunlight. Directions like pendulums and trees as shadowed in sticks as branches to a headdress. Fires in the night that invite the evil to absorb the forest’s darkness. Leaning in like licking a flame. Purity in the blackest of mud. Exfoliation of the soul. You’re in tune now. You’re walking dead.
Grave dug from the depths of Moss Archive comes Blostma, a form of minimalism that is unbearably dark, but you can take another burn cell in your spirit. Stream it below and grip the tape from Moss Archive ASAP:
• Moss Archive: http://mossarchive.blogspot.com
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