I stood in a puddle, copper wire twined round my fist, vined down my arm, and sought to conjure some false spirit with a jar of fireflies, an old key, a wisp of your hair. and when the bolt shot I felt nothing but ensconced in deaf air, unsinged, a permutation of static yet, overhead the memory of thunder.
I don’t exactly know what’s going on here, but that’s okay.
RT @AdamInCLE: Wrote this: Faraday Cage — http://t.co/S5864VmX #poetry
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