| The Presumptuous Screen |
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Devoted to my current emptiness and lack of graceful mind
A Cemetary's Drawer as the ivory key whimpers from solidity for reverberation, wind moans through and through for a leaf to descend. as temperature peaks with volume to cascade out from two, i bring my venom to dispend. for i have cupped up beauty and placed it in a cemetary's drawer: so it sits and mourns the single flower that bathes in the rain at half past four. i've loved it that loves me. i grip his sides to hear the flesh hum, as near to the pound of footsteps as running to a drum. and rhythm like it cascades in harmony like yellow pollen from a gun. though it's lovelier than table salt and sweeter than a tailpipe's sneeze, sometimes i beg for silence in a train-like mind, to summon that empty ground i feed: as in, i let the fog of schedule paint a dinner for my greed. and its airy texture resides in me. and for a moment, as i waltz, i can blink and feel nothing but my nothing failure and its lack of vehement antidote. when i back away from creation, i let the strings of my resolution tie my thought as 'sold'. for instance, if you let a seedling go, would you gasp and wish that you'd not broken hold? that is the reverie of me. the realization that, in being bound by ivy fortune, i have suppressed my every initial step and replaced it with cold, shivering idleness of the heart. what i mean to say is: my dream has jumped into a hairy drain, and by doing so, much so in vain, it screams like fallen soap: unused and used to being clean. i hope that some sparkle of ignition catches my weary eye, for the sound of lullabies only wakes me up, and the knowledge of loyalty only strengthens my sexual rust. once more, i beg of the evening government, to untax my spinning nerve and let the fairy once more curl up into my brow and sleep. her breaths would fill the grey with light and leaves. that is the reverie of me.
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