by Brett Devlin   the moon smiles down from his cold sky the limbs of the oak like the fingers of an ancient witch The dark night smells of the earth as the trees burn with the colors of autumn decompose decay dirt crisp…

This content is for Basic Member, Friends of Burningword 3-Day Pass, Friends of Burningword 3-Month Subscription, and Friends of Burningword Annual Subscription members.
Log In Register
Listed at Duotrope
Listed with Poets & Writers
CLMP Member
List with Art Deadline
Follow us on MagCloud
%d bloggers like this: