Mr. Mood
Days of crude reflection, Isolated in that foreign past. Solitude with no discernible direction, Thinking back on twilights passed.
By Scott W. McCormick4 months ago in Poets
“Is this the place?” The driver questioned in an aloof manner. It’s the most I’d heard out of him in nearly four hours of sharing a car ride.
By Scott W. McCormick4 months ago in Horror
