frozen;
the pain comes in waves.
retaltiation;
in comes the sensation.
you come half way up
to meet me.
we grind and blood pours.
our lips are bloody.
hatred slithers up your leg
and forces it's way inside.
purposelessness in the glare
or the mind's eye.
our cross is in the making.
wake me at the end of days
so that the calm belails the
king of the array.
disgust is rampant and
the odor is so thick.
a musk of rotten plans.
It's great, but dying.
it means nothing,
it means nothing. |