This piece was sculpted out of a long email thread I had with a close friend.
> reveals
> > > > > >
> >
> > itself as
> > > futile and you have no
> > > > idea why
> > > > > you’re
> > > > > >
> sitting there
> > > > > >
> > with
> >
>
>
>
> –
This piece was composed by plundering spam titles that were themselves plundered from Edward Thomas and Wilfred Owen.
in the forest was a well, there he sat and cried
Against a grimed hand when his own’s quite dust
Hast thou no place in all their heritage
But here I pray that none whom I once loved
My head hangs weighed with snow
as possible beneath the smoke. Presently he saw open space, and the green
is she going by herself, lying in his grave?
One Comment
loved this