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The First Estate of Paris, France

They Riot. They revel in frank spotlight, getting drunk in a boozy blitz. You can find them wrapped in the lush covers of pure linen on Sunday mornings, their madness of headaches and chills covering their aching bodies as they skip the early mass. They’re boys that play the cards of life, gambling away any sane they have left. If you’re a witness they’ll slip you a hundred, and tell you to keep your champagne soaked, honey dripping lips shut. While they sip and throw away money, and write what no man could ever imagine. their celestial smiles draw you in, and their crumbling hearts refuse to love. they count their vices before they go to sleep, hoping with vile smirks for just one more. Wicked souls and radiant faces, That’s what everyone says. their pockets are full of blooming green trees, That’s what everyone says. Glass chalices filled to the brim with molten bronze. That’s what everyone says. Ten boys who blush at the sight of glimmering gold, and shiver at the mere thought of dripping crystals wrapped around their necks in the thousands. Ten boys who Rip Ruins out of each others throats, Kissing the face of death with blackberry wine stained teeth and magnolia projected breath. their once simple minds soak up wretched knowledge like sponges in the mediterranean sea, fathers teaching sons to trip the dance that life plays on realing repeat. He teaches them to love one lady only, her worth is enough to buy them the world itself. Their silk pants stretch with inherited stacks of green dye stained paper, rendering their useless hands guilty as they count them, slip for slip. Have they let their hands become rough from labor? What a silly question one might ask, they’ve never worked a sunset in their lives. They wish on their four lucky stars that daddy won’t go bankrupt, His money is the only thing keeping them in their right insane minds. They scratch at their skulls in pandemonium, searching for an oasis inside their hellish, bourbon soaked tears. Yet they find nothing. Screaming nothing, ripping at their shredded vocal chords. Wanting out, But being trained to only go so far. Yet they can still catch the kite that flows so far, They are, Empty Nothing. ?

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019




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