Something was simply occurring, yet this just must only be a part of the whole heady process
Can feel it, in these quiversome bones of he’s prone to dreaming again
What a pretender, outright maniacal – a thirst – ridden eye on the prize of a mammoth lifetime
Perhaps it was all meant to be
Perhaps, perhaps, perchance might they tear on open their insatiable eyes again – so long disguised – and pry like devils on crazy kinds
To hold these illustrated pages and breathe a brand new life – when he met them by the festooned middle
To have and to hold, bold, boldened font
Wanton success, when an inner beast tends to breathe, intricately feed, via acknowledged approval
His arm is restless for relentless endeavour alone
Yet that’s alright, has to be, a slight of fabricated hand prone to separate / wholeheartedly stand him steadfastly apart
Fingers and toes bloodied and twisted in excruciating hope, the Pope daren’t pray so darn much
Frightful the lust which will carry said beast to the dash-flowered grave and with him all of these wannabee nothings who continue to strut their falsified stuff
‘Til upheaval leans on in ‘n’ kills ’em all – one self – permitting dialogue per time
And, then, an unknown explodes in a most posthumous fashion known, the passion always there only minus the lavishly imagined life – Knife – edge and we cannot but force ourselves to love it

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