So there's this thing I've learned lately about people. Folks, I should call them.
They're not as folksy as you would think. I've come to learn that the link in the stink in the air can be directly trailed to all the tumultuous tripes and tropes will place on one another.



Drip into the lamplight liquid.
It will make you limp.
A liniment of livid, paraffin feelings.

So, in dealing with the stresses of soft bodied faces.
What would it take to take apart an edifice of feel like love's graces?
Space is empty space. And empty words are worth a lot.

Like a space with smiles and faces. And love words. Herbs.
Like bergamot.
Like chives.
Like rosemary.
Like basil.
Like reciting Hail Mary.
Like reveling in fried chicken.

It's normal folks that are bestricken.
With hell. And fire lances.
And fresh meat. And naked prances
But hateful hearts make unfaithful food.
And food's what makes you good.