The snakes went forth to strike in haste, Mother watches with carefree contentment. Further proof, in the midst of trying to stay primitive. Angst in the soupy mesh, struggles in the maddening quackery Its nervous and contemplation move inward. Damming you to a futile interment filled with meaningless virtue. What is the blending, this miniature weight that feels like a million tons. Monsters in the alleyway, protruding with a quickening valor. You cannot have it all, but enough isn’t the trusting factor of the prized title wage.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger