Pressure between your shoulders, shaping your spine; shadowing the blind, stress relief through ancient grief, tho’ less wise you’ll still criticize the actions of your reflections painted in the mirrors leaking nightmares,
And in the end you’ll still evaluate only when things aren’t great, while I’ll continue to ******* on these precious tectonic plates, painting over the old world with new shades of chaos.
We’ll ***** and moan until we all grow old and increase the fire until someone puts it out, and yet we’ll never know what it was all about.
The answer buried under the aged wonder flowing beneath my chambers, never to be uncovered until everyone is in the pit, skeletal ash, so delicately rash, now consequences return as the careless burn.
and we are our own ****** hot spots, erupting over your own ****** thoughts, mixing lava where it doesn’t belong, and ******* your world into a massive batholith, a dried chunk of a once damp heart, now contemplate how to complicate and begin again from the start, until the pressure of it all relapses and from within a fatal collapse, Poetic caldera relinquishing the day, and all that you know will be broken, and all that you don’t, you won’t.