Kåre Leander Ringling Frang
The wooden clogs ended up in smoke
these are no longer cars
no roar nor screech nor skid nor speed
dismantled, ripped & born
with a stone like skin
and a pearl glance on her inner shell
+5 armor
react empty:
eleven fifty five
save and sound
breached hands
exposed by a vague contour
webs of silver trails
vorpal schemes
iridescent escape routes
Users hands
must have felt something
flames perhaps
we slithered on with gree
stoic and stout
the smell of new car came with the wind.
