Some words zip around like a dying fly's corpse hitting a fan. It's pieces should be collected, fit together, observed, and put in the ground where no one will find them; where no one will dig them up to utter them again. And the stale blood should be wiped from the blades, for they will keep spinning, and no one likes the sound of a truth gone false, whizzing 'round incessantly in their head. No one likes the crimson smell of something they'd rather forget.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
Some words zip around like a dying fly's corpse hitting a fan. It's pieces should be collected, fit together, observed, and put in the ground where no one will find them; where no one will dig them up to utter them again. And the stale blood should be wiped from the blades, for they will keep spinning, and no one likes the sound of a truth gone false, whizzing 'round incessantly in their head. No one likes the crimson smell of something they'd rather forget.