It was like a question that was still stealing ice from the air, taking care to avoid lies in tile chasms, wafting animate not-quite through folds in inverse convection cycles Just like echoing rhetoric, manufactured in the same manner as an origami organic experience. And it could never provide the satiation of such things.
Three solid stages, caged mytosis and the certain influx that acronyms cannot hail correctly; only struggle like craggy fingers in minutely cataclysmic detail maps. And this exalts the pit in you and I, like the legend because it is called a key, but reluctantly; there is no I in me, we most uncertainly have become ceremonies that fail to explain anything after dust settles for years on intentions that were lost and decay faster now, plaster casts result in furrows on brows that are versions of truth, algorithm understated dot/slash Deny.
Stitched me in welded pride, and the ailing sense of dignity shattered on one last lolling mosaic crescendo, one call from men with withered glory; to fend off honor like old housewives with brooms and marked delusions.
Decisions writhe on dotted palms like wisened wives who cut ties in lies and uttered decaying sighs, decrescendoes disigned to impale the ratifying satisfaction that comes from hanging rusted signs, to fade tenacity with the darkest wines and she won, sallowed rejection piled in the corner ; empty paper cup turned existential in the breeze and it was filled with the true nature of music ; flung against a wall and then settled to the ground in recognition of the chorus.
Comments 76
that was still stealing ice from
the air, taking care to avoid
lies in tile chasms, wafting
animate not-quite through folds
in inverse convection cycles
Just like echoing rhetoric,
manufactured in the same manner
as an origami organic experience.
And it could never provide the
satiation of such things.
Reply
caged mytosis and the
certain influx that
acronyms cannot
hail correctly;
only struggle like
craggy fingers in
minutely cataclysmic detail
maps.
And this exalts
the pit in you and I,
like the legend
because it is called a key,
but reluctantly;
there is no I in me,
we most uncertainly
have become ceremonies
that fail to explain anything
after dust settles for years
on intentions that were lost
and decay faster now,
plaster casts result in
furrows on brows that are
versions of truth,
algorithm understated
dot/slash Deny.
Reply
and the ailing sense of dignity
shattered on one last lolling
mosaic crescendo, one call
from men with withered glory;
to fend off honor like
old housewives with brooms and
marked delusions.
Reply
like wisened wives who
cut ties in lies and
uttered decaying sighs,
decrescendoes disigned to impale
the ratifying satisfaction that
comes from hanging rusted signs,
to fade tenacity with the darkest
wines and she won,
sallowed rejection piled in the corner
; empty paper cup turned existential
in the breeze and it was filled with
the true nature of music
; flung against a wall and then settled
to the ground in recognition of the chorus.
Reply
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