Exhaustive catharsis. Thoughts become caustic.
I start to think, then I sink. Lost in the margins.
Haunted by posits. Daunting hypothesis.
The yellow king is telling me the crosses are sharpened.
A novice in blossom. A rose from manure.
Lick the bottom out the bottle. Under sobered influence.
The Joker. A loner. Moping through hubris.
The showman, imbued with social amusements
sewn to his two lips. Soul in a feud with
hope and it’s uses. Cold and abusive
to those who he chooses to open to. Suture
close where he’s wounded only to rue in
what’s old and been muted. An opus he’s losing.
Last edited by dull boy; 12-28-2019 at 06:07 PM.
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