Dear Solomon,

Ever since I sensed you smelled of scents,
I've been acting sick.
Not myself, not silly.
Someone else, really
It sends me in to a solitary rage.
A severe-sadistic-rage.
In need of sanctuary
In deed, if saturated with such things,
nothing but sin will grow from the seed.
Saints could fly over us,
if they so choose.
But, no saving us from our sad,sad souls.
And what we sowed, seeped out and showed.
It's floating above the stench of us in suspension.
And we bought what they sold.
Nothing salvaged.
Sadly, im so gone.
Sorry.


Sincerely,
Sasha

Old ***** popping out,
watching young girls walk like ******.
wish I could say more.

Go ahead then
Let it end.
I can't pretend it matters anymore.
The door
Is on the floor
And I am at the threshold
Inhaling the fresh old air
From the land of I Don't Care
Where hope and glory
Have no story
And nothing reigns
On the plains in Spain
Though the cards remain
There's no one left
To finish the game.