we rove in shabby clothes in the splendorous groves of our night kingdom. we tread unkempt beds than rather lay our heads or make love in them. we darken the closest star we further the farthest more lost,Β Β than found. we groom the mane of our lying. not for the lack of trying the truth... but more, for the harm - done allies in a war of thumbs in a Serengeti of our imminent demise.
we poker face. we monopoly grey where our pink blood is enough. we trouble the rust. we slink and encrust where the oil slick cuts a more striking disfigure. we toss sharp dice for dull games. blood mites for dust devils in broken chains. we retreat from rings that ferry ending gloom to better yes the no of things too maybe to true.