A touch of death,
Specimen in the back shed,
Joggers on the streets.
Seizures of cursed withering adolescents who ate the sweet pomegranate
of lust and *******,
And never came home.
Sirens at the sybaritic streamlet,
Swashbuckling seventeens and greed of fanciful adventure.
The young rebellious nature
of hopes and aspirations.
The harvester, the hunchbacked prince, the harrowing keeper of time,
Creeps like the night,
Like the stains of black ink that scurry and watch,
Who spy for the other-mother.
The exquisite expectation of an oncoming assassination,
Unsuccessful, beaten, and purged.
Burried in the soft silence of the hushing leaves,
In the swaying trees,
As the fatuous breeze follows aimlessly,
At the ankles of its maker.
The exhaustion of the tangerine technician,
At his mercury writing desk,
Pondering if he begs for the inspiration of the raven, to the very extent it drives him mad,
What is the difference?
Assembly lines, employing those who they despise.
The last humans left scoar the barren dust storm that was once the azure bliss of the promised land.
Do not ask the doctor for answers,
Simply receive his remedy and swallow.
This is how it has always been.