fourty four seasons is a cataclysm
skin's stretched thin to know the excruciating allure of breathing beyond bursting when, with demure smiles, the party plays on: a muse, a role, a portrait.
lovers fractures fiends
we writhe through the decadent technicality of juvenalia; readied, calloused damsels & self-inflicted villains so hot for easy triggers, nuance is eclipsed for the consequence of battle.
poets, bled for the sake of any replicated yesterday, keep to the still with the rest of the liars-
memories to modify histories
to steal wounds to
exploit promises to break
come heavy in heady ghost alphabets & we'll unravel like a thousand corners drifting from every sideways, soaking physics with spells & wine. we are only what we have always been.
some sleepy books along the way:
� aethesia �