She is the water bearing spirit
near the lake at night
Combine this mild duality
to trickle down and decide.

What trusty steed to ride upon
What unwritten creed to follow through
To follow a path rarely walked along
with such blessings from a single few.

A connection split by folicles
Words spoke and motions methodical
Cherished cohabitation and
an Astonishing Conflugration
That rewards our Versimilitude
with love.

My four hands can guide you
my steady minds can show
Though i carry less than water
My true passion is to grow.

My mild to frank multiplicity
Your Bold and cautious stance
to consumate our loves authenticity
I'll, for you, rarely take this chance.

standing on edge, little white dots of perspiration. like a visible spiderweb after a rainfall. the hair on his arms stand up. a definite articulated action.
one not made by him.
standing up like little soldiers aflicted with mob mentality. sensing the mood that swallows the weak of will. or do the weak swallow it?
is this the reason he doesnt move? strength?
the little mutinous strands of hair on his arms. his legs. even the folicles on his neck. betray themselves when a cool gentle breeze blows through the wet sweat of action and tickles him.
and then the song changes.

Here i am laying roses at your funeral because i, i am the one that killed you. It was my gun that was pressed against your temple i counted to ten but you see it wasnt any ordinary gun....it was my lips gently pressed against yours that slowly killed you. I was slowly poisoning your body with every lip lock and hand hold.... i could see that it killed you inside to be with me, so to get rid of us you pulled the trigger and overdosed on poison. The doctors said it wasnt the medication that took your life but it was every i love you hushed into existence avoided by your parents and i dont even know why i tried because. ..itll never be the same when i look you in the eyes, when i write lullabys with your eye sockets. Day dreams with your hair folicles and forevers with your angelic smile. Im laying roses on your gravesite because i know they werent your favorite.

Comatosed with open gaze insinuating
Morphine daydreams,
With bristling hairs along arms
Before she had the chance to shave
and the folicles deactivated;
It is her womb she has devoted
For the public eye;
How it slowly rots, from incarnadine
-as the historical pictures aside her show-
To it's current viridian swelter;
Like an ugly robust bruise too tough to die.

Rupturing outward a torridness
Of legs and crooked fingers stuck to half-grip,
Scanning southly one notes globules of goosebumps
Haunting up her thighs,
Pricking cloudward and shivering implying that,atleast,
For a second whilst living she was aware of this—
Her impending fate.

Red,red,red lips
bud close to form a cute,poppish image,
Honouring those photographers who come and go—
Her tiny hands are posited to corner her tiny *******
As not to stir any further controversy.
The lady in the jar awaits the usuals,while blind
to her own doing so,

Mind overrun and on display like a faulty calculator
Via that dull, happy, gaze.

She smells up the room of exquisite perfume and
Quixotic trees and fields and roads and too much more to mention...

The fee these stranger's would scavage from their pockets
Just to be awarded a chance to touch
The fair lady’s skin and determine a better verdict
As to whether or not she meant all that much to the world
at all.