No Cure

Glaze of a flare, fiery blaze seen by the flare.

Even all, quiet and despair.

The soul could not bare what layered ahead of the snare. A remembered taint, of what was erased. A stain remains in the fade, a disease in the brain had spread. Rusted the chains and exposed the life thread. Scissors seek ahead, as its realized it's all in the head. As it still lies along side every breath, all hail macbeth.

B & B