Counting softly. The marrow of the villains. As they feign their fear of the heroes. This caress is a barter that must be repaid. This flesh is a bait. To coax the demons away from heaven.
She wears her autumn in fattened moons and dead leaves. The animals not ready to release her from their bondage. The politicians more interested in her cunt. Than who has violated.
She busies herself collaring the dogs. Strays to build an army with. The witches in her fairy tale all cooked. The candy houses condemned.
Still she coddles the spark. A stalwart contrarian. Determined to prove. The virtue of the deception. For hungry harbors drowning in immigrants. And empty rooms where kings die alone.
The intricate lacing of her bustier a fitting puzzle for those that would find her. Smothered in her dress. A funeral of pussy and tits. With no one to mourn her.
Monday
6/21/2010 12:41:00 AM
Sad Labels:
hyperbole
,
introspect
,
math
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