At Loggerheads with the Storm
Beneath mottled shells of dreary, setting suns we bury instruments in living sands; digital treasures to map the edges of existence. Caressing your carapace as
"this is sixth form poetry, not Keats or Yeats"
Beneath mottled shells of dreary, setting suns we bury instruments in living sands; digital treasures to map the edges of existence. Caressing your carapace as
Besides the tranquil sea and sun-bleached sand, The turtles find a place to make their nest; Probing the rolling crescents of the land, To find