Print Job #813 By Drew Mikhaylov

Thi man dressed in linen




A space poem



Thi soulless winds of roaring chasms speaks in tranquillity, rather than listen you sense thi torrid rain pour towards one's face. In thi tranquillity thou seldom thwart a man. Amongst ambiguity thou ferment effluvium vapors raise via crude turf. Impulsive ionized gas dashes aloft, Indubitable suppressing thi journey. Abnormally thou hurtling thi tranquillity, a man travel in lavender black linen. Thee hundred lumen follows. Zchunk roars thi crude turf.

Thi man dressed in linen saunter into a masked den, thee lumen contrast thi dark. And so his eyes can see. A backpack in non-contrast to thi linen cloths. whack swoosh bonk, thou den echoing.

Drew Mikhaylov