One more hit
and we’d be seeing the last of these precarious days – better dead than barely there alive
Sad and twisted eyes will cry in utter desperation aside all kinds of typical anguish – highlighted by smears of blue blood pushed upon art-infected walls
’til, finally, infamously famous white powder with wings ravishingly wished on, shoddily disguised by mere kitchen foil destroys it all
and hands fall to ricochet sides, aforementioned eyes begin to drop down and quench themselves entirely
And the dealer sits opposed
as she always was
pumping her nerve-rattled bones ’til personal blood starts to fall
He’ll be making enemies from the grave

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