pip

I have fallen from instinctive grace, a lame excuse for shameful games, fame is your trophy I lay slain, vied myself between fury and fortitude, distinctions cut with unconditional magnitude, the only solitude, I wished for was inside your arms heart beats in situ, I remember your eyes were my i’s, how are you today is the medication working, I’ll be here always, you’re the closest person to me, cuddles and love, however I want to settle into society, blood lust for dust cloaks, and daggers hidden in some kind of rot, ten for honesty in your hand as my heart you crush, you fall in a rush in an attempt to hush up my spine, denying that it was nothing that it was at all divined, it’s unacceptable, however communed electronically when you thought I shut the door, and when I attempt to call you out, suddenly I’m a broken metaphor but for the record, the cord has been cut, you have dismantled me with distance, a distant peripheral superficial belligerent, I was angel incarnate, protection and hugs, now I am Satan shot to pieces, with splintered slugs.