Drums beat to exercise timely shots as the boiled over temperature heats and cools, before heating again like the menopausal nature of dysfunction.
We want to tear each other apart in the pursuit of thrilled vengeance, that overshadows squints of reason.
How easy it would be to walk away from the battle of defeat, that gives words the meaning of meaningless banter.
The hate feels so much better than pretense of calm, as the burden of wastefulness compels emotions to form as armies of flighty swordsmen, ready to slay potent energy fields.
We strike hard and low, and then rise above gathered trash before falling with thunderous splatter into fixations of unforgivable renderings, that are dusted off, ready for showing.
When we hurt, tears serve as washes of dried up cuts, that itch with the sting of negligence, which we don’t care to slather with ointment of healing.
Clenched up paranoia become overdue accountancy that perform the dance of denial when confessions turn into trials that make playtime the deadly weapon of servitude.
Fists sway with fists, in the unsightliness of combative jewels, gelling in the strings that bind guttural moans in the midst of erratic jerks.
When switches give power to the change of scenery, mellowed views contain the previews of the shattered aftermath.
The forces of madness surge for one last punch. And the casings swim in gusty surrender.
