Bruises, Heart Murmurs and Wine

Let me pretend. There is no evidence in my room. Let me rewind, and erase all sacred momentums. Let me sprawl, my hatred and explode. Thou doesn't want to see, the deep of the vitriol I dare not let out of me. I'll close my face like a template for psychology. Puzzle that'll take a lifetime and more to console. I do not have the means to escape and provide. To facilitate the means to grow the seed. All that was said is left owning its own. In the dust-bells and dire moors of all that could have been said. Nobody warrants this love. Nobody calls on just one. It just echoes its tyrant as a virtue. And confuses my wicked soul as something that if I were an alien, I'd love. But I am full for the seed. For the vitriol to make it this way. And I am a scape of goat. For the things I'll choose to let go. But they still sing. Like a banshee in my hay-day. And I'll stare at you. Like a swollen bruise. I could patronize with that everyone already knew. I could set a fire and turn this bruise into a scare. I could rectify the coming changes with a steeping stone, and that I choose. I could set a light to the gasoline that runs through these veins. With you. Change can scare the holiest of crowns. On the megatons of the first Atom bomb. In the threads of my murmurs, in the ark of my aftermath. There will be no stories I. This what I choose. Somebody come and kill. This empty shell of use. Somebody come a choose. To let me not dream of bruise. No there will never be another you.