What’s the route inside my head, did you feel that curse inside the bed. Wonderous like a thunder clapping in a rain storm. Fuddled for the fixture, bleak and covert in the brains and horrible mainstream. Portraits outright in the canvas, sliding forth inward and kindness in the doorway. You search for the exit, but it is no where to be found. Outlines and mazes intrap your eyes from the new puzzles of madness. Which of these final areas will you cross into make a way for your panicked kin. Your kilts manged to dampen the hole with temporary measure. These taxes clamped your freedom, with a rhythm of choice not found inside this doubt. Does it bring out the worst in us all, or can we fight with our hands callously struggling for a purpose.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger