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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Arts · #2322386
Untimed In Essence, An Often Intern
Metronome, methadone, left all alone.
It's a curse. Nothing worse than one dumb phone
or some smart cat saddled with thick heart fat.
Where's your bear's fair share anyway? Not there,
nowhere, not that they care. It's rare how that
stacked fact, attacked and hacked, hid unaware.

The starred sky, a marred lie, all somehow died
before we saw bright pups light up outside.

One shot, boom! Some hot gloom, exorbitant,
sung not whom cried, "What doom?" Extravagant
flashes of lashes past remind refined
folks who choked yolks once refused and declined.
No matter the time, who flattered the fined?
We waited, sated them 'til they reclined.

Height of nightfall, sighted blight lawlessness,
rites to fight tall, might can't light formlessness.

Exploded through desire, higher rose fire,
complicating, imitating our woes,
life's dire. An age of staged rage to inspire
those foes whose hose grew when they knew who knows
where we were, who we were, and how we breathed.
The longer we fought, the harder they seethed.

All who don't believe brethren bred from sea
get left bereft to grieve deaf infancy.

Sand-papered carpet, bare blood-soaked soles, soiled
land-flavored parchment, spare uncloaked rolls. Boiled
deep in a tar pit. It's a bit impure.
Twisted mystics, slipped fists, broken clipped wrists.
Those sad gits sat in fits and bit the lure.
On and on it went 'til we burned their lists.

Then it ended, and you can't mend it, friend.
Don't dream of gleaming beams their void may send.
© Copyright 2024 Laurie Razor (laurie-razor at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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