I bludgeoned you with my templet, figured and formatted in a wired truce. The snaggled and miniature triangulation, speeded through the smogging cans. They chased you with the wind coursing iron and angles. Every ship feared the journey, figuring out when you’d cross the plain for a real passageway. You promised the mask wouldn’t completely filter out your cannon. Those tracks you built, lent to your ever pressing measuring of a faculty. Bleeding out in consistency, these oppressors found you in need of figures. Your pressure on the fixture, these damming cattlement. They robbed you of your precious game, they made you into this belittled and insignificant rodent. Will you search in the cupboards, is your source finally drained out.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger