Caressing the accent marks. The creases bedazzled. Marble fittings along the hinges. A vintage pendant. A token, a symbol of mischief; Sins and Social politics, Empty rhetoric, The curses of the heretic. All hidden Beneath the surface.
You feel the tensions quick To rise Against the sunrise. Surmise as if Christ rose on the third day After sunset. The fools wept, Yea their upset, I guess. Oh well, that’s what the fools get. For believing in an empty message.
Storm clouds And hail stones launched against the windows The friend zone then closed door. Oh no, here we go again. Back to the drawing board. I mean what the fuck is goin on?
The cataclysm of thoughts Corrupt What’s already Been tainted. Determined unstable. Too fucked up to bear.
Years of suffrage becoming too great to handle. It simmers and stews from deep within, No lid to contain it in. Why jump to conclusions when usually It’s used to forge a testament.
It runneth over The gutters swollen from months of turmoil Explodes into the front yard. Hold on No means to safeguard that lanyard you’ve been handed. Well, if this is it, I’ll be goddamned.
The key bent. No entry permitted. There’s a reason why we barricade the doors in the Courtyard. To keep the court barred off Chaos of the ruins ensue within me. It’s the truest as a cursed were certain. I lock this burden beneath it’s surface once before Never to return to it. If no reason there’s no purpose That’s for certain. We must have learned that We should avoid Pandora’s box.