As our bloods separate the clock resumes,
I hear the wind again as our hearts quieten.
We were a ring; the clock ticked round us
For that time and the wind was deflected.
The clock pecks everything to the bone.
The wind enters through the brocken eyes
Of houses and through their wide mouths
And scatters the ashes from the hearth
Sleep. Do not let go my hand.
- David Constantine -
Model by [link]
Tears by [link]
Rest is painted.