Untitled Work 013
The ghosts of arson trees exits the vestibule;
Only to crawl
from without entrance of mastication,
performing a series of grandiose contortions,
waltzing through
the hair follicles within nostrils,
and haunting
into the dead air.
It's populated with a legacy of versus, the air,
which may not always whistle a sweet song.
Think now, of an eerie romantic sere possessing the multitudes; many are too lazy to exorcise.
Thoughts stand as stanzas.
The same refrain replays.
Existence is pain, restriction the same..
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