The wolves at my flesh feel more like mosquito.
Of every single habit from a hat.
The structure of the wound.
Doesn\'t heal on the pound of flesh.
Sitting front and center of everyone
in the crowd. I was only scared on my own, creation\'s nexus
but now I\'m horrified!
In the counter-part
of my role, the stunning
gale. That I\'ve drowned
my own life.
And death is secondary
to our parting from our
knives.
That I sit in circles
drinking the
sweet yellow
nectar,
of every
sense.
Burnt
the offering
but still somehow
I haven\'t died?
Killed my senses
numb at least twelve billion
times.
Haven\'t I lived?
Haven\'t I died?
Aren\'t I just you in
a different suite?
Can\'t I go past the
finished line?