The greats flame out in the fire of their own passions.
They burn like scintillating firecrackers against the dark.
From a distance, you feel lucky to witness such incandescence.
But the brightest brilliance burns through the feedstock of dry rot.
That Jello plate was pain, that half-bitten sandwich pain,
that drunken urinating a barely concealed cri de cœur.
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 3:26 AM UTC
The greats flame out in the fire of their own passions.
They burn like scintillating firecrackers against the dark.
From a distance, you feel lucky to witness such incandescence.
But the brightest brilliance burns through the feedstock of dry rot.
That Jello plate was pain, that half-bitten sandwich pain,
that drunken urinating a barely concealed cri de cœur.
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