A house cripples under the weight, of thoughts that bare no reference for the wanting. This cold chill, we feel it in our bones deep within the cavern of blank stares. The shadows pear in the middle of bringing forth in the red room. Grey strands of hair, flap in the breeze like a cold winters eve. Her words make mention of the lies felt within a nation of cowardly intent. You walk down this road in harmonics and reservations. Black bones are snacking on the soil, just to keep from falling into the earth further than expected. His mother coddles him, smiling and caressing the cheek of potential damage. She fears letting go, movement seems scarce in the melody of lost time.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger