A box of shadows lies dormant in a cluttered altar
Seething in circuitous rage it ravages for a state of tranquility
Clinging to clichés it finds a familiar maze of cognition to pace
Crunch
Time
Crunch
Less of it...
A prosaic necrosis leeching at the lungs of the pure until the labyrinth halts and coughs for another chance to die
But there
A smile permeates
the glass of the half empty and
the being forges on in the wish
of a kiss beyond birth
But no one could want such a putrescent jinn
A miscegenation of indolence and desperation half-cocked to quake at the cackle of a shred of hope...
Her illiterate alliterations go as far as a pebble into the deep where once
She found her depths