Morbid.

​I'm sitting again in this broken ride, Travelling distances vast and slow, Adjoining pieces from a soulful scatter, Setting places up,  Bringing fields to vision, When there are ruthless knives That strike inside. When there are scars still fresh, Wounds that still bleed. When there are questions too deep, Resting in voids And reasons too …

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Everything that excusingly lies in between.

What is barren enough to be rendered useless, abandoned to become withered and be compromised between well connected desire, between well passionate plans ? How far do you need to wander, in which depths might you drown to be labeled as "lost"? I'm not aware. Never have been. Maybe this curiousity is driven by restless …

Deathlessness

Feet propped high, Well above her deflated being, He sits with a bemused expression, A lavishly expensive smile, Pasted upon his plastic skin.   A sordid shield, Labelled 'elite' hanging around his neck, Rugged strings forming depressions against his lousy skin, Sitting retired and loose, Against his rotten bones.   A master-like expression evident in …