monster of sorts

Scathe inside and hide the scythe. Wait for opportune moments to smite the spite.

That’s how everyone else thinks, speaks, reads, writes, rides. Militant hypocrites hide collides, waiting for atom splits in house fights, domesticated henna bride traipsing up the aisle. Ownership dictated memories cast out as lies, sign new names on polka dot lines.

I’m more concerned about the fall out, did the ink dry first or did it run? Three pairs of feet and the echo of a shotgun. Sealed in wax, carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero lost seizures speak now or forever lack strength in purity, you didn’t, so I bid thee collapse, you always thought you were the hero.

It’s not even me. Listening to your version of the ‘facts’, snakes lying in the greenest grass as black as the night you danced into perchance, obscuring persuasion and your personal coercion relaxed. I don’t usually hold out the olive branch, green blooming white blossom turning deathly. I’m not sure if that’s how it appears in reality but in my mind, that’s how I see it so clearly. Vividly. The hand holding it is mine, microscopic shrivelled petals tumble carelessly into oblivion, not even a pretend grasp reaches out to catch them.

So nobody can say I didn’t try. Silence.

I pluck a voice, strumming the blank canvas score staring into the air waiting to be touched by truth. Why I care, I don’t know, it’s not like I’m even really there, as if I even believe you. I did everything I could but you crash land, worse than the fate of the planes and identical towers, fire, fire, agh, agh, London’s burning. Fetch the engines, there’s a hole in my bucket dear Leila dear Leila, and you fall down breaking crowns tripping through hills of cotton fields, chained to your thoughts.

Experience, and .facts. without being didactic but you want to make your own way. Fine. Great. Slam dunk gymnastics. Mission fail with all the wrong tactics. I gave you fairy lights of wisdom; warned you against the tramp, weaving hair and mock innocent eyes itching for a bribe. You thought you knew better thoughts as if you were somehow more advancely protected than I. Like your angel was holier than my higher conscience guiding spirit, sold yourself at less than cost price to a two-bit digit. [Exeunt Scribe]

Tangents talk too much my thoughts contract away from the convert craving freedom space inside my sway and I think if I liked him, I guess I would have tried a superior form of persuasion but he pretended too much to not be Asian so I opted for invasion instead. Fact is…I’m lost in a disharmony of fabled stories, I want to write for you, me and you, you and I, us. Sue me. Optimum saviour. [Enter Hamlet] It ends in dizzy knees.

But for you, you pretend to be a battle-axe. It was all designed, the words upon which you did not heed. Seed. You ignored it. Paving your way to a hellish grave but you choose your own way maybe you will realise when you’re old and grey, lying on your death bed in your very last days. Forgiveness is not submission under wronged eyes, harsh judgment’s a must in this unsolved case, you’re an unpretty prey without a pretty prayer pretending you’re weak when really you’re mean, slave to Lucifer’s inflated inverted wayward stare, your faith if you ever had any, dissipated and gone, what hope do you have when you continuously say, stay, pray, you are the lost one?

ink is free, so...

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