His face drained with charcoal honey and his bones withered to dust and ash.
Flowing into the lightless black pit of her ruptured lungs
The last of her filling up with swamp water, the angry bees humming in her head.
They've come to tow the bodies,
Toss skipping stones into the emptiness beneath them.
They pulled their hoods off. The raging sand storms greeted their faces as the cloth fell behind their greasy hairs.
They waited.

Either way it is wasting.
Claim your right
  to keep copy from pasting,
thereby laden these words beneath stone
where they lie as they rot, still unknown

Or to say
  what to speak is sweet tasting,
each frame recite
              liberties; terms replaced-
                                           -til the thing
doesn't resonate whatsoever, like it had, let alone
retain echoes of intention from initial undertone.

Incubation of thought from at best a guess of hue...
Distraught by more; eventually confessed
and we implore
what is repressed must we explore,
attest the vast extent this mess was misconstrued.

              Til to not adore much, lest
we curse what bless us as we grew.

They are the parallel lines that meet
In the cerebral heat
All that chatter
Everything that matter
Creates life
Without the power of knife

In the rumble of their feet
It's nonsense that they defeat

They are the parallel lines that meet
In the cerebral heat

A multitude of Cerebral Blips
Brought to closure by a
High Priority

*Bloop.