When the air is thick and soggy
And sticks to the roof of your mouth
Sweaty and salty like muggy peanut-butter

You feel  squished and squirmy
The ground ******* up your ankles
And with each step the mad-mans's chains reflect a dark and silent future
Where your hair sticks to your forehead like a psalm

What could have shaped up
to form something this sharp and quick
that can be lovingly::: mutilated?

Remember when you would dive into the pain that plagued you and come out gasping, with a huge smile stretched out on your skin
feeling more alive than you did on your deathbed.