My memories are made up towns with traffic lights’ gore scurrying the cars to find the fill to de-burden its routes. It is a two way street hanging on its lips a junction of many routes, and succumbed tree lines too.
The dread that deals to derail is one which comes with brittle trails, unoccupied in their flattery, and abysmal they plunge into their wariness. No hope stutters out from the scare; all lives little by little exhume silence.
Paying freewheel shadows to pull apart their farce costs fortune and why not they drivel in their low malady – the witness to it jars his bone to revelry. In times of struggle, they must piece their apologies, tethering on the stalling virtues, virile in their vagaries.
The accustomed sounds ply in their overtones even, and nonetheless the fickle find they must be tired. Retired trolls have gone on without any pause of their vindication. Not unlike in any sense, they must too wither away, leaving hostility in its place as a subtle art that must be practiced without a hint of sin.
Gargling out ghosts and craving crepitations, they channel their insufficiencies in their mistaken ideas. No ideal lasts as furrowed. As these beasts in their senility of the age figure remnants of disbelief to cower behind as, they must also yank their masks for the eyes and ears to realize their relief too.
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