Art. Poetry. AI.
Horned and holy still The flock gathers in his quiet Soft vows in wool light
gipsi
Stinkhorn in the woods Sweet rot drifting through the leaves No one turns away
Old gods in the blood, A sudden scream in the chest, The wild still remains.
Ogre in the woods Pauses for a flower’s breath Softness in rough hands
Last crumb leaves the hand Generosity tastes soft Sweetness shared is gone
Cactus in dry light Hoarding rain like a small vow Stillness with sharp arms
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