The Spider
bloodless coup,the strip nigh high,the begging art do fold arm of wooden bosom.mine own
eye's be still,grand of nay one thousand hands do object to folding tents and calling rents
paid in divisions and ceromonies.i am tempted to ball up paper and wax the floor with mine
own eye lids.if i ever did castle her,she would marry the virgin poor king,only to spite me
and only to be myself.the chancellor is vaporous tonight,for i wont go away.too many tragic
minions in the fortitude of mankind,do i walk with shadows or trap a heart good nothing?
many times i expect she has taken a lover,but it wont be me to tell her all,my everything is
doll breaking and the fixings are on the table.the wind is sweeping,ever peeking at the
lunacy of the sun.we are one,universe,but the spell binding effect is most nutricious.be thine
own hand and beg for fifty more than bargained or anticipated for,for we are known men,old
poets,and we beg for hearts and thieves,ony to make it go away.fix me,my dear villianous
vampire.
Copyright © Chris Bowen | Year Posted 2010
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