Pixels weigh upon my opaque mind set
The normal third tier of distance
is not asserting its wicked face

Never before has this scent wrung it self
From a fugitives discarded clothing
Dared to cross these topographic horrors

Deep in the hands of some bewildered mongrel
The evidence engulfs the ghastly thin walls

To lose the branding Hannibal
and his nomadic pursuit
Would mean retreat to an empty cavern

But With not even some flimsy novella?
The currents and the basket weaving
widows would not appease

The Ernest clock of monstrous honesty
Calls for us to depart
This holding cell is still filled
Deep with ticking heart valves

How many times has this repeated?
Were losing our grasp
It’s been hours
And without any thought devoid of mossy textures

Chalk smears and ambitious plastic
Dual neglected lives in this purgatory

The ones that have been haunted
They are boxed into some neurotic tri-valve machine
It spits back the violent and the tardy

Pleasing the populace is just not accessible today
It is without any grass
But this overly sensitive blanket that I touch
I must venture to this foreign world of pleasantries

Where cry shed over a dingy t-shirt
And the slow desertion of the wilder beast will not be tolerated