To Smell, To Uproot, To Fashion a Seed (The Human Curse)

Praying to fallen suns – titans of a previous world view: formulaic.
“I am immortal, so cut me again”.

Tiring skeletons, freeing insomniacs – trying to convince the gardener that roses don’t need tending.

Weaving through vehicles (look at the snow!), inciting an accident – what the small lives will never know.

“What an offense”, declared the jury dread, this justice insufflates – yet holds a grudge.

Freedom’s synonyms wilt: pearls before those worthy – hundred foot wall for a skull.

Leather compendium shouting, “I’m back again”. Knee’s stop jerking – toilet paper parachutes landing in an ocean of context.

Dripping from chest in the shape of unsought uniqueness to the marrow of a core.

“Now sever my head”.

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