Pulled through the center at breakneck speed and flushed out the other side with the rest of the refuse. It’s a simple understanding and a misrepresentation of an understatement set aflame under an orange moon. It glowers and growls, howling into the winter winds, holding off the frostbite for just one more second of precious life. Indicated and infiltrated of it’s nature the surrounding air is twisted and wary. An expression based upon the cold checker pattern that exists to perpetuate your wicked little game. Witness the removed pawn that left the board, the very second he realized the Kings Queen, was nothing more than another little whore.
Straight jacket the goddamn mime for I’m sick of hearing his voice and quite frankly could do with some silence. It’s like the sick voice that loves the lust until it has you by the heart and on your knees. The madness becomes thick and combustible and soon the explosion is destined to occur. It’s like a sore on the roof of his mouth that would probably heal if only he could quit tonguing it. Vicious little bites of heated embrace set to grasp wrists like chains of slavery. Gratitude given over simplistic and physical gratification smoked thin and gone without a trace. Beneath the sweaty embrace of a thousand lovers, maybe there you’ll find yourself. Maybe there you’ll save yourself.