In that arbitrary sunrise can be seen the fruits of my labor:
A washed out painting of a deranged panic beast,
The ashen limbs of a salivating curse fire, obsessed with trinkets,
An elliptical cycle of recurring memory that plagues me~and it's a Face.
But for whom was I laboring, if not for the quotient of society?
Is it right to plague me with worries of another's love,
Or to expect me to spike that love across the court of romance,?
Does it give you something to work with, something to remember Me by, or is it enough to break your spirit with my callousness?
I'm sure you'll remember that, because I do, and I'm like stone.
A pair of sea-blue eyes; a swimming pool.
Not a mirage, but still unpalatable
Clean, but unsavory
My humor like chlorine ~ absolute poison.