Currents Poem by Frank Hill

I grow Strangly, its the wildred blosseming spasms of a deviant
thats carefully slipping into liquidating winds,
and its storming through a world where cracked tibias embrace the neck.

And beneath, hair slowly rising as tentacles,
will be falling on the veins of a carefull hearts avalance.
and the streaming pink currents following,
always resemble a glimmering black pearls submission,
much like a broken wish, lusting for the obliteration of the sun

And so a emergance of a head crowned in butterflys...
can be seen as a play-full refelction in shallow ponds of blood,
where a raveneous limp around a fairys garden
soon brakes a leg, to mix the shattered wings in with the mud

A rusty cuff mockes the grinding of the key...

Natural seems deafening when its drowned at sea
Where pale limbs entangle, unknowingly
and the only horror is whats washed ashore
Discovered by a innocent, who cant help but too adore.