Potency

sweet nothings permeate some immediate fancy. such cruelty found in the cycle of men. hard held inadequacies sublime in all but thought and intent, how could we do this to ourselves. yet again, unlearned in experience- this self replicating cataclysmic convention. grievous undertakings solidified in naught and disdain, frozen aptitude- the resolute never final. tendencies absolved through any means of incapacitation within moments reach- fleeting fancy brought on by languid sound. what optimism at its best can never compare.

Barely Alive.

The sky is falling and i could care less
i found something good
and vaguely familiar
in such an unexpected place

cling to the floors to stop from falling
im falling up
upwards in the sky
while everything falls around me

he found something good
and hauntingly similar
so much for class
brought together by the thread
we chose to cling to

waste time, nothing like the end
to start some beginning
unknown from the start
we cling like parachutes
while we fall
up
up
up in the sky
while everything falls around us.

The Number Juice.

A garrish display, finite till the end. Still left in the stillness of things undone-what then will become of us all. filters and delinquent cove, what right do we have? Estranged in unraveling demeanor, how can we not but blame ourselves? Do that dance, and lift that drink. preening feathers as we go. tight lipped till the end, who could but guess our names. Start your engines and race to the abyss where excess take new meaning.

Sanguin Aberration.

The decision of Languid fervor has long past, as sentiments soon dissipate in wintry mists. A colloquial affair with much ostentation and pedantry. I no longer hold that veil of splendor, of that a tortuous panorama. Of such a beloved spectacle I would care not soon forget.But all together cannot resist the inevitable.