Shameful and altogether enraptured til claustrophobically captured – by this unspeakable thing.
Ten thousand smoked oil-soaked cigarettes to get her by her blasphemous day
And we see it all, pity her derogatory fall from imaginary grace.
To taste the sunshine might be twice as nice, only these demons have been swarmed to form and to gladly curtail her necessity to breathe easily.
Safe to say that it’s all of it been hellish on high-Earth and then something extra-specifically, inordinately estranged.
Yet, she still prays to a piece of her better self
To creatively amount and to preposterously delve – when amounting appears to be the very last hope held shovelled and buried, sacrilegiously hostaged by unkindly time.
If only she learnt how to turn over the tasteless page… and to rebirth, unearth her bare-boned belongings again.
“Pen, paper – please say when exactly this curtailment gets to lending itself to an ending?”
“Soon, my dear, soon as you reintroduce the blade and get to letting it breathe easily. And, please, let it be weaponry, for we’ve been waiting with death for our very best friend… and it tends to getting awfully warm in here.”
When the bitter eagle abounds to bite and swoops midst conscientious loops… like crazed wildfire.
All eyes contaged back upon her, about to taste what’s been remarkably wasted by all.
And entices itself back to life, time and time again, to watch and to miserly witness… a most agonised fall-to-crawl.