The Scream of the Tillman

And those who listened

Spectacle Lake digital Art by Author

His eyes were puddles of swamp power with the switch turned on
His fists were small like rocket mice, with something to prove in the corridors
His back was bronze and his words like teeth, they cut so deep to the night and its jugular
His eyes they were black and no one could stand the light which yet shown forth from them
The blade in his pocket had cut the boxes from postman and…

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If you paint for me even one thing which is true, perhaps I’ll be tempted to consider two. I tell tales poetically, someone else needs to set them to music.

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If you paint for me even one thing which is true, perhaps I’ll be tempted to consider two. I tell tales poetically, someone else needs to set them to music.

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