(I'm) passing out in 3rd person.A Poem by Lee W. Deason
Lean against the wall... Lean on anything stable...
Are you listening? "The question is tightening." Metaphorically you take another swing at me. Horrifically profound and you, flaunting disgrace. He hates the pretend lives. He hates these pretend eyes. Argue, split angel hairs. Waste that, spilled blood for your crimes. Testing, are you really listening. Or we can wait for anything... We can anticipate... Tilting at windmills. "You classically waste time." Hypothetically I was dead on arrival to you. Horrifically profound and you, flaunting disgrace. He hates the pretend lives. He hates these pretend eyes. Argue, split angel hairs. Waste that, spilled blood for your crimes. Testing, are you really listening. Done? Are we done here, with this infectious disease? This artificial fusion of substance to spirit, never to please. Synthetic sickness, salvation breeds in your mind. Leaving us behind. Done? O we have just began, the plot thickens. Acid from my dreams boil in this cauldron, sincerely me. Brewing monsters you gave to your children to play with. Tasting concrete. Sobers the mind, and pummels the body cripplingly. Durability dwindles to fragility, then spelling lethality. Erosion of dreams engraved in my chest. Blood bruises. Done? Are we done here, with this infectious disease? This artificial fusion of substance to spirit, never to please. Synthetic sickness, salvation breeds in your mind. He hates the pretend lives. He hates these pretend eyes. Argue, split angel hairs. Waste that, spilled blood for your crimes. Testing, are you really listening. All these definitive points come rushing to view. When blocking my sight is you. (I'm) passing out in 3rd person. © 2008 Lee W. DeasonReviews
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