Odd Lot (Metamorphic)

Solid spot.

Odd lot.

Authoritative disorder.

 

Borderline the freak.

Peaked on transparent, yet discrete.

The truth about mortar.

 

Presumably bleak.

Climb the peak.

 

We wake from the sheets, from sleep, to hunt meat as to eat.

 

At least we fall in heaps together.

 

One marks us when we are gone.

 

Enough passion to be seen from the streets,

from the trees,

from the clouds,

from the sky-how high?

 

Out of this orbit.

 

So morbid a sight to see.

 

Blessed

are we,

are us,

are fools.

 

Our hopes,

our lives,

our kids

our rules,

 

we build our trust.

…  And then we die…

 

Fixed with fashion,

A ship going down.

Straight lips-ambiguous, no smile, no frown.

 

Tight hands clutched in a lovers quarrel.

We ride to the center of the earth to steam and boil.

 

Then we start over.

 

 

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