The Burnt Molt of a Molten Phoenix' Rising
Its been a show of force since my ancestors first swam over the umbilical.
A strain of Loathing rings in our ears, A dog-whistle held by my personal demon, it's engraved with my name.
I smile when when the frequencies pain grazed my inner ear, and tickles my cerebellum in a way I'd deem inappropriate.
It makes deaths hand that much easier to shake, but I know pain is peculiar in physical interaction, pardon the crass approach.
I see it as such; you either get put on, or get put out.
If that's offensive, does that make the stomach turn?
Then you already know how debilitating ones placement can be.
Living within a horrendous ruse, each step is worse when the Labyrinths' Lord grew up loving the filth,
respecting the mess,
kept it rotting in Memoria.
A mausoleum made to rot away in decay right along side you.
How can one care about maintaining the place in a state of disarray,
instead of the health and future preservation of the daughter you left, I won't say it's disgusting, at most extraordinarily unpleasant.
When I reach the curb of my thoughts it always ends up with the understanding that a home is where the heart is, so home is what you make it.
One hell of a interior designer, not many quite like her.
One hell of a inferno desired, I knew she had it in her.
I knew that the plan needs to be changed.
Cautious in my approach for revision.
Easily she saw past the tip toe type energies.
How my interactions with her became labored.
Attempting, trying to find a way around what I really wanna say.
I know that I have little to no chance of us leaving this place clean, It's all useless, unless its engulfed inflames.
I wouldn't have guessed we'd douse the house in flammable liquids.
Maintaining zone, a controlled demolition, a prescribed fire, for her a
Therapy through Arson.
Why me? Show me for what? Questions will go unanswered.
We became undone, around me all becomes helpless and the spiral forms from what once was hardwood floor twirls, whirlpooling around the same size and color of the chocolate soup that consumed the young glutton Augustus Gloop.
A golden desire wrapped in addiction.
An elaborate hoax told then reinforced by the flavors rich, creamy, and delicious.
Time and placement; can you see what I am saying or where this is going?
Mind the gap, Positive Placement.
Location, Location, Location.
There is no place like home.
A hinted hesitation is an invitation left open for interpretation.
Copyright © William Rodriguez | Year Posted 2024
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