Hardly holding it all in,
only for the inevitable release.
Suicidally sharp exhaling of every word
in no discernible order
Your arraignment,
a secret stab to the heart.
Cold-cuts, cured, sliced singularly thin;
phantom fuel for your mental engine's machinations...
On,
into the intrigue.
[21:55|30.11.011] ©c.thomas.carter
No comments:
Post a Comment