All those bubbles that feed to you from my veins, each statically charged to inflict it's torture. Each carries your corpse out of the eight foot drop, but you still smell that which the microbes smell, and hurry for the feast.
It is not so easy to turn a head when the truth explodes nuclear-white in all directions. Here we stand, waiting for the vaporization, picking our teeth, with the last bone.
No comments:
Post a Comment