The fever rages despite the hour and the obvious faux pas, mindless of the meter, heedless of the rhyme. Her eyes burn, the color of bad dreams and forgotten songs. Her eyes blaze that much brighter unseen. There is no reason in the depth of the draw of her natal sway, only alibi built for kingdoms of mayhem and slaughter. She is that road laden with all manner of intent, direction all a blur, the journey all that you can feel.
This misery should be wisdom. Lessons should seep from you brow like the hot beaded sweat, blinking as if from the bitterness of tears. There is murder and hunger mingling in that ache you attach to her dancing heels, the stitches of a shadow too heavy for motion to bear alone. Like love blunted, like lust laden in chains and thrown from some foggy bridge into the salty rollicking depths below. The escape is nothing until it is framed in these concussive elements. Desire just so much friendly fire, wounding all the same.
Knowledge is meaningless when grappling with such overwhelming fictions, the groundwork of it taking more than you thought you had inside. That lost love, that missed ship, the slipped punch a feinted jab with a heavy hook it its wake. That one habitually expected lingers in the dusky periphery, coloring meaning into the margins, a residual sentience staining each realized moment. The murky truth of her never known or met, each kiss wild with myth and chemistry. Knowing that there is no honesty allowed towards those that have swallowed the fable whole, you luxuriate in the impact of your blunt and ugly lies.
This misery should be wisdom. Lessons should seep from you brow like the hot beaded sweat, blinking as if from the bitterness of tears. There is murder and hunger mingling in that ache you attach to her dancing heels, the stitches of a shadow too heavy for motion to bear alone. Like love blunted, like lust laden in chains and thrown from some foggy bridge into the salty rollicking depths below. The escape is nothing until it is framed in these concussive elements. Desire just so much friendly fire, wounding all the same.
Knowledge is meaningless when grappling with such overwhelming fictions, the groundwork of it taking more than you thought you had inside. That lost love, that missed ship, the slipped punch a feinted jab with a heavy hook it its wake. That one habitually expected lingers in the dusky periphery, coloring meaning into the margins, a residual sentience staining each realized moment. The murky truth of her never known or met, each kiss wild with myth and chemistry. Knowing that there is no honesty allowed towards those that have swallowed the fable whole, you luxuriate in the impact of your blunt and ugly lies.
dwam:
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