Sliding through the doors and guiding perception, reality's a bore and we abhor killing, although god wills ill willingly. We wield a flaming torch of senselessness and in taming our skin peels, but without pain, only restlessness.
     Numbness of a thin membrane spawns pseudo constitution like that of a tin roof, fighting nail and tooth to keep out the rain. As if that wasn't proof enough of our inane train of thought, proffering in another trough to sing of strident screams assaulting our brothers pearls and laugh it off.
     Accumulating ardor until the dam bursts and we're cured of thirst, but this isn't the first time we find ourselves raiding the larder which houses our rind.
     Lurid and unfound, did you check the abound amount of wrecks, a seething fount of tiny specks that think and gasp, laughing they clasp hands halfway to passing the brink and sink into communal revelry. Right on queue they impugn all with great brevity, calling upon the sordid boon of morbid longevity.
     Seeking obvious allegory as if promised an ominous story, the glory isn't in the reeking meaning, the stench of truth seething, bubbling up with states of static erraticism, no. It is in the glow that surrounds every energetic imprint forever bound and finally rests, but never severed, in the glory of the hoary ground. And despite this relentless memento mori, all the little specs are lost...and found.