|Tags||Exiled Artist, Hartier|
|← Hartier 1 - Hartier 3 →|
We've lost our place among the mediators
the whole world, divided
into clans: of sanctuaries and cities.
We lose our brothers to illness,
Bastion, the wild men crave in Sunken Seattle,
residents of the tilted rooms and jagged glass.
Bremerton is a boomtown,
waiting in line to be Detroit,
to fall apart and then look back and say:
This was somewhere people used to care about,
we had something here, something American.
I'm getting desperate.
Maybe if I build wings, of
something for those Beacon freaks to consume
in mass, like a stampede.
I'd retire to an old hillside, just me
my hotspot laptop,
no friendship, no address.
|Exiled Artist||Series||Eleanor Blog: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 – Eleanor Sketchbook: 2 | 4 – | Hartier: 1 | 2 | 3|
|Standalone||Anti Beacon Flier | Eleanor Email | EW Death | Last Poem|
|Hartier||Series||Hartier: 1 | 2 | 3 – Postcard: 1|