Devoted to all that is miserable, probably quite akin to a mental asylum patient only minus the crazed bravado – harsh by many an admittance, these intricately interwoven chains only ever getting to live and breathe on up inside of his ramshackled brain – when everything begins to wreak a seemingly all too necessary kind of havoc, when he’d far rather be dead and typically buried in these particularly deceitful instances which regret to ever mention the oh so good times again – wine and lukewarm cider in the country sun as opposed to homegrown fear swimming in warlock tears
When pleasure feeds on pain
Over-embellishments in the outright name of aim, to make his art stand the test
Time can sit, fold its trembling legs and wait ’til his fate is unequivocally sealed, all of every piece now finally getting to live and breathe right between these purposely built ‘soft and breezy’ pages, easy on the roving, all too interested eye – nothing but a falsified lie, that’ll be the writer smirking rather gladly from within
When death makes them think that little bit extra special
They do long to see just where his manic nature may take him next, to adore the name and never the work
To be seen to be reading

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