Flesh plummets from the sky, she’s eighty knots from the truth. The air smells with agony purified with epiphany’s. Crafting the new bridge made of buzzards, The atrocious scheme,is labeled on the door for you to remember, memories cripple you from ending the task of the undesirable contract. Slashing away with an axe to grind at the weeds and bruises, pushing forward sweating from the strenuous emotion felt at the other side of beginners luck. But what’s done is done, no way to pretend this was nonexistent. No way to break the cycle of doing its bidding. Stay in line, and one day you may amount to something great.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger