His wind streamed warriors he armed
--- to climb into the sofa's
with weapons of striking
--- to scorch upon the skin's of our roses
lightning lacerations fall across
--- our faces, our statues, our voices
like porcelain cheeks that
--- shatter to the tape, sticking
crying blood like the boy who
--- cried seven times
he cried wolf one to many times

------------------------------

he sits within his invisible foam army
---whittling nooses
wearing his suit made of circles
---running backwards in thoughts
pondering what is next
---slamming into his reflection
to face his destruction of marbles
---chipping from the inside
he sits half awake
---half asleep in a dream of an altered state
drooling in his self proportion

-------------------------------------------

he knows not of pain
--- but only of it's inclination
sensing self destruction
--- all around him, a selfish reconstruction
tripping over the fine line thats drawn
--- across our faces
hiding subsequential evidence
--- that his actions are the very channel
within files carved out of skin
--- placed upon the table, for us to see
bloodlines exposed in lifelines in sad times

we meet