The Sheets


Sheets smeared against shoulder blades. They cut like a knife. Feathers flying everywhere, they call it the night life. They slide over dreams and brush against the subconscious.  Slithering across bodies, they are coming un-done. Almost threadless, there is a hole big enough to climb through. It started off small – the bite of a mouse, but with one toe through the edge it becomes like a house. Smooth rustling reaches quiet places where there are only glimpses of parts to a whole.

  • A Word Of Substance is currently accepting submissions of photography. Your photograph must be of an object to be published on the blog. If interested, please submit your photograph and the name in which you’d like to have appear on the blog to:

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