Filtered rooms, caught up and entrenched for the damned souls. They lay barren for destruction, pathways find ways of untraveled scenery. The warned wished you out, but you fought for a place to call your home. Small frizzled balls of yarn, unbrighteled for your enjoyment. They came undone just in the nick of time, for you to feel a change in the mood without a care or a tremble. They panicked for space, not aware that they would have to fight for what’s left from the flames of anguish. Those old rotting books, came with a price on your livelihood. A grouping falling from within, like blocks caving from a thumb print managing to hold in a gasp of air.
Creator And Contributor- Chris Ballenger
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