On the tip of the tongue.
On the breath.
On the stuttering, slurred passage of unknown words through loose lips.
In the movement of body.
In the way it spun like a top out of time.
Violent eyes danced wildly in their sockets.
Unruly hands dealt cruelty to innocence.
Rivers flowing freely tasting like regret and sadness
In the wake of the moonshine storm.
The Writings. by Victoria. 