the words breathe. the paper creases.
the weather flaunts its whispering fangs. a catastrophe of skin. sour with irrevocable choices. the simmering conflicts of threshold and conviction. a pantomime of dead things.
she spent the road. a currency of solitude and indifference. she collected her wealth. in isolation and apathy. negotiating with the wind. as the storms came and went.
dancing to the hum of the soldiers. as the war insisted. coloring in the silhouettes as the future slouched toward its inevitable end.
the curious discipiles of schrodginer selling their stories to the highest bidder.
the posion in the box remaining a vague reminder. of the dwindling distance between chaos and consent.
an hyssterical repetition in the futility of flesh.
Thursday
5/19/2016 11:33:00 PM
Sad Labels:
hyperbole
,
loneliness
,
nefarious
,
panic
,
paradox
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