Sweven

Lioness
A day waning. Lioness roars. Spirits scatter like storm sent wind. Most run away. A few run to. Lioness sings. Those who hear are granted wings. We soar into the ever bleeding heart of the west.

Perfection
Her children stay small. She keeps them in cubbies of sparkling crystal. They are the projection of happiness and health, of fortune and wealth. Can't stand the shine of their pseudo perfection. I hit the holey road.

Hypnagogic
A square pan full of burnt food from which black ash rises and drifts