The black marauding figures in their much maligned coats walk around pave less streets in the moonlit emptiness.
Rising smoke rings of question marks dance upon the faint tree tops and the windowless shacks stacked together forming a capitalist percentile.
Transfixed on the eyes of ageless wonder, but upon the birthing breast is where the animal hunger lays deeply rooted.
Wrapped in nakedness and swine, ink splotched rags cover more than the shroud of a warm blanket.
Literate nothingness and sensible gibberish mask the foul stench of sweet irony.
Chaos cracks the concrete in the depths of the facade, leaking through like Pandora’s box.
Fire torches the swift feather as the absence of light turns to the burnt embers of love’s tender place.
The mystical fantasy sucks in the black hole of daze past, swirling faster into the cold spring brook.
The door shakes upon its rusty hinges crying out at me, yelling and tears flowing, crashing against the tyranny and misguided virtue.
Shaking like the chill of morning, a dove sweeps to the crossroads of abandoned tracks, left behind for the blind wishers to use.
The quiet hum of incessant conformity gives birth to ageless brutality with a cheerful grin.
The mountaintops dethroned with fear in their hearts, cursing quietly with the dead.
Buried bones sit in majestic palaces upon our feet, listening to the beat of rather tragic tunes while the candle lit is but a faint memory placed in their tombs.
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