at the precipice of why where weary was will weave its rest
lies a lustful lye in strings tugged by dust;
nothing but a dream, but the crop clipped short for
seamless reciprocation, of feelings lost and rusted.
a wakeful sleep wanting but wont for desire to
keep fussing towards fruition so taut
on the shoulders of a god worshiped by a fostered
lust.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
at the precipice of why where weary was will weave its rest
lies a lustful lye in strings tugged by dust;
nothing but a dream, but the crop clipped short for
seamless reciprocation, of feelings lost and rusted.
a wakeful sleep wanting but wont for desire to
keep fussing towards fruition so taut
on the shoulders of a god worshiped by a fostered
lust.
