I'd be the entry will
be truncated
thorns past the ugly skin - and
withered yet,
my chances adorned by weather, an id
forced beyond the frequency of a
bet.
I'd rather placate the masses than
twirl -
eat up every chance I got as
phantom,
than be alive amongst the living
churl
dancing down the wrong street,
throat or atom.
That now no shame can hinder us, my
dear -
let's speak kindly to rangers who,
holding us
against our own demise - as if we're
only here
to placate - come nearer my soul, to
thus -
not thee - and wander endlessly language -
finding nothing but corpses - rotting mage.