I knock, but it’s all hollow. Why would I enter, but there’s a fire from the cold. I can hear it crack, yet it’s insincere and synthetic. I could touch it, but I avoid it because it feels unnatural. I sit on the steps of leisure, waiting for whomever to pass by without any sort of measuring stick to guide my pathway. Are the walls motionless, do they make me swim from my current destination. Those traditions are lifeless, they blend in a crowd of filthy borrowers. The imagined you would take a fall, you figure ments blended ever so slightly with them inside. They gasped for air, it smelled like fresh paint on a phobia. Those large sentient planets, they floated like bulbs that lit up your world.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger