Tie yourself with the falsehoods of a scoundrel, its eighty forth attempt expired with fabricated disconnect. Moving two and fro, inside the minds of a cunning linguist, the morning star trickles down ever so slightly to meet you. Smiling upon your guilt, to make believe that most things will transpire correctly. Its never been simple, you can feel it growing more strenuous by the ticking clock. Almost as if it laughs at your pain, clicking in your ear as a slight taunt. Inopportune glances fill the room, looking about to find no fulfillment in empty words. These mongrels toil over possessions, but its sustenance does not complete you. Will you ever be satisfied with the results of the labor.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger