“Saintly Suns” by Kyle Richardson

 

Subject matters verge into complex comas.

Dry cracked skin sheds whole souls and memories.

Those abrasions can seem like tiny flickers of ember.

Scorching scars into fickle skins.

Honest sands dehydrate devil’s souls.

Abstract desires react and cajole.

Rising temperatures open eyes.

Saintly suns tell us not to lie.

Red hot moons wish that we would fry.

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