Sally Anne Morg

My name is Sally Anne Morg.

On the east coast border of Alabama. Wet I was.

Soaked in frogs. Paled in mosquito water.

I used to mail carpets the smell of rotton blood and throw newspaper the feel of molded silk.

I used to sweep dust from the ash of mutilated farms and whip the hairs of the strong bruted horses.

I used to gather lawn wheat for spiders, and tusk oiles from the mammels in my dreams.

It was like a beach with trees of half seasoned bark and magic blood like sap.

It was like abused dirt that carried the feel of dark clouds. Bearing softness with every walk, You find diamonds.

It was like gems, crystals, and glass asphire granted into the rocks that slowly melted, fomring the loudest ray shines of a waterfall.

It happend before my skin was blunted, barked, screwed, yelled, screamed, plunged, and beatend with every abandoned voice that kept me.

In the wild country of dried seaweed and sunflower hats. I learned my destiny.

Any sand haired, peached skin girl with freckles and a crooked knee.

Can find her destiny.

And i, Sally Anne Morg. Found it.

Yee-haw.