There’s
a soul of illusions, pulled sorely, a tint of heaviness.
It’s
internal, a type of havoc, for a foe. The dream is
magnets,
a rare schematic, even a rhythm for rhyme. They
sculpt
a stanza, to pray freedom, where caffeine is shallow;
and
what for tone, a woman’s crane, to paint a verse. He’s
heavy,
a torn affliction, a dungeon’s ballad. She chiseled
death,
a world to pay, sorting through laughter. He parted
clouds,
an agile angst, sipping Bacardi. How for appease,
where
nothing’s wrong, netted and knitting? He apprised a
soul—to
much dismay, mourning at a sandbox. Something
baffles—a
soul of terrors, for three failed lives. The
picture’s
blemished, even patched together, a web of dots.
She
laughs a plea, to scorn a soul, to pause for liquor. It was
never
them—racing towards hell, doomed at their alpha;
plus
a cache, filled with demons, riding a carousel. What
for
tenets, a set of rules, as opposed to chaos. They hate for
breath,
of utmost pain, to tug for heart a son. It’s more a
crypt, a neighbor’s
scourge, a bit of flatness.
