Unoriginal. Look at this tangle of thorns.Web of skin and nails and hair. Clouds of smoke, lines of hope.That you believe in, take in, you breathe in.Means nothing.You'll roll over, sling an arm over cold torso. Cold torso seemingly mine.But it's vacant. Evacuated. We've left my body hollow.Rest in Peace.Oblivious to my state, to my place, you remain, unchanged.Don't look now, but I'm lost in the haze. All purple.The billow of royalty. It's nothing new to me.Concentrical. Conventional. Intentional.It's a game.And we play. Just to build the fences, under our false pretences.Keeping up appearances. Defending from nuisances.Restl
Sta.sh
