Fast becoming 4 + a half
A teste treason enrapturing yet more of itself
Scant are the consolations that come dressed in disbelief
Hell-bent the distillations tritely trialing relief.
Minutes more mean my mind's at 5
Dead and darkened, hallucinating that Hell's been halved
Still, sunken scarlet tales twisting to tawdry fate's tumults
Stilted by the Harlot's Hour, that finally forwards our faults.
No comments:
Post a Comment