Blowing the Whistle

The snatcher of a growing childhood converting adolescent innocence to adult desperation now wears trending covering of power and glamour with mind blowing colours fading away from one wash coming from a shredded past is this trapped thunder having an attitude felt in different temperatures and character molded by a thousand question marks. An uncle by blood, a friend at heart a heart which announces all kinds of delicious meals but serves in actuality spicy foamy vomit shows qualities seemingly classmates to humanity but are wholesomely baptized in the dead sea the chilling atmosphere is no camouflage for this freezing fire bathed in his urine, yet now declared clean. Time has grown beards and once again, their eyes meet she's expected to kick the whistle for his fame to linger his shadows, too weighty for this new image he carries smiles manifesting with a lazy energy knocking the head of every feminine soul his moving up has considered these stains beautiful with his sleeping crimes far from societal righteousness whoever he has beaten, should be a celibate prostitute and kick the whistle, never letting it reach the lips. His sunflower is blue and honey, bitter letting the world know this, translates to singing hymns to the dead she stands her ground to open his history's black chamber he's the criminal but the public stands as her poisonous jury she chews this bone with rubber teeth but never stops the truth unveils but to noisy ears to let all know he's an adult born of a child. He's tenacious but not on a jean underwear one more little voice adds to force out a moving plant the anthill is broken as they come out of all holes one time preys now unforgiving predators to show a personality as real as a neckless head resting on boneless shoulders the whistle has been blown rather than kicked as justice and fairness become first cousins to life.