There’s a normalization of the matter inside. A bearing to its madness fought. The breakdown in the machine is the mouth that speaks of tragedy.
The macabre ascend from vanilla and pool in crimson.
The hounds tooth barks and the filthy is indeed the dirty. With the wines of stuttered veins boredom rises from the hypocrisy of normalcy.
A moment at peace has yet of the quell of triumph, the rigors of sanity.
Winded of weird, ecstatic of felony. Ones breath toward fallacy.