death plays coy once again keeping me from escape
from all the memories that bring nothing but pain. would be better to burn out like a roman candle up in flames, fast and furious without the wasting. wasting wasting wasting slipping further away into the blue-black veldt that hangs over the moon and stars of the my night. there, hidden behind it all, death laughs at struggles as inconsequential as mine, striping love and beauty from the bones until nothing remains but ichor. ugliness abounds in the modern age of here today off tomorrow to the next sparkling thing if only I could find a way to live as the others do, and bury myself alive in the process of becoming other. Comments are closed.
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