The remnants of last night's nova lay scattered in tatters on the patterns of ballroom linoleum. Flattened bottles and kids full throttle on people petroleum. They whisper, "we're full of them deaths 'guised as holy gems," but no one could hear through the decoding of the exploding star, the eroding of that foreboding bazaar, not even the one whispering, loose lips left ajar.
The remnants of last night's nova; it began with a beat. Melody sweet was distorted just to show the flipped switch kids who retorted just to grow numb, with ditched brain space aborted just to know dub, or love the microchips imported just to throw the blasting bass bubbles of sound into the ground, spinning around, until they come down, to frown at flowers powered by the eye of the storm. Where it's the norm for their forms to be torn from their static.
The remnants of last night's nova was an illness of stillness; of dripping dead glow sticks that knows this fist in your chest clenched tight, and the sight of last night, and the fading lights just show this restlessness is not the best of this bright. The love fights muttered through shutters of others echoed soft cotton swab colors in sunrise skies, and despised eyes, and reprized "why?s" to inspire white lies.
The remnants of last night's nova are gone.
inspired by candy kids, light shows, and bass. PLUR Copyright: Bennett Tyler