the butterflies have sponged the blessing
a chemical warfare confined to paradise
the peace offer was set ablaze with the premise
drawn in sand and washed by oil, thick virgin blood and white male tears
alas, nothing worth mention was lost, truly praise be
the death of those that break and taste, rather, delicious once blue and cold
a fine fragrance never taken for granted, for the hunter takes just as much
pleasure from the finger press as the cutthroat does sharpening the knife
to better satisfy and bring peace of mind
effort does, more often than not, translate to earned sucess;
cutting loose the wastefulness lost on fools
falling atop of each other and therefore
thieves by chance, hearts tore in two, interchanged
clock that child on the making
a moral instigation blossoming, a bud blessed orange
if it were blue it would constitute post-modernism
a wave of a finger, a fist engulped, digested slow
I slap my leg down the goddamm chair as in sleep
the weight gives in to gravity and the jerking motion
shutsting down restarts the engine by survival instincts I suppose
either desk or floor, whichever strike first
careful who you listen to
the madmen of old or anew are not enough
to wrap up this world, do not settle
if to give you up I had had to cast a spell
a noose I conjured for the both of us
a road I walked past the bifurcated end in a serene anger fit
the heat a rush I cannot match
a thirst I shan't justify for the burn consolidates the memory
what was lost must be immortalised
earned tombstone by the stars, a promised shoulder and a bedtime story
to sleep by.
