The painting tasted like sin,
Like lust, and deep unknowable oceans.
It felt like a fresh heart
Torn from a chest clutched in your hands
Still beating and bleeding and warm.
It sounded like echoing screams lost in the darkness of a soul,
The hatred of a murderer’s hissing breath,
And the soundlessness of death.
This author tends to go off on tangents in her work and likes to try to write the world as aesthetically pleasing as she believes it to be but always ends up with too many adjectives and not enough reality. She is currently attempting to get a degree in English Literature at the Ohio State University and has two cats and a raccoon named Peaches.
The Ekphrastic Review
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