This body just a shell in a world of lies and selfishness
greedily wanting what one doth not deserve nor worked for
my bones grinding down to the dark ink in which i paint
my anger and the lingering shackles to life which I'm bound
the kamasutra of my face is just a bent puzzle of what you inflict
I am what you see and what you see is the only presence that I am
the karma of my words just my rendition of my punishment
a tortured Iron Maiden in which i sleep to bleed.
my blood the stamp on your envelope, a check or two to kill me more
Just a facet of the dream casket the death vehicle of injustice.
balance is a sickle of the hyper terminal in which we communicate.
Dots.
if I had just one wish upon the cherry branch to cast
the ocean blue, the breeze serene. Would be my Zen garden dream.
a temple of light in my fading sight of the world that i live.
a broken bike, a stolen car, a lost wallet, a gallery bizarre.
walking.. as I once did. Down a street without a name.
All Painted in Ink.
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