We must unite, on the swivel trigger of truths. Like a track record spins on a cereal figurement, red bumps itch that is the scratch of fine linen. A stained glass window, those shard and trinkets of gold liquid under pressure. These fake’s wanna push you over the edge, an obscure line of pain and pleasure is felt in the quake. It shivers inside, the mind melds in a world of kind and flattered flights. White painted, and in the plains wrapped in skin tight leather and lace. In the pans, boiled to a heat unbearable to your mind’s eye. Scribbling words on wallets, this currency is baseless an unimagined make believe. They moved in and out for you, they begged for you to stop this tragedy.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger