Paranoid Cassandra thinks she is it
Simply, evilly – downright none too shy-brained any more than the next vilified wishfully thinking person delicately usurped by this taste for strife
The tax on life as we fail at knowing it any more than the next great face which settles itself down to parade its flowing juices midst all n
Sundry – pummelling the tax-paying people’s awfully wonderful inadequacy’s at mind. Her mind of mind’s finds the wind-down, midst the wind n the misshapen willows, this undeniable upstart upswing bring it all in.
As her light catches the silk-worn page, wages a most unforgettably succinct war, for all to feel while they see next to nothing so strenuous any more than the next great taste which feels his handsome, hands-down immaculately made-up face
He has been relatively feminine by nature all along, although albeit matter of fact man-made-up to make the deafening difference again – she and he have been glued together and forever to the portable television set – wherein all of the great fake people
Feel nothing but for utter re-creation. Living white lies while cradling the other beloved person’s autistic foresight.
It’s not the light but rather these misshapen window-pains, wherein the craic gets to letting itself in again … cracked glass sins. Seven years of delirium about to endlessly, aimlessly begin again
She’s not Maud Gonne, never will be – gone girl, gone ///