This life is a construct

Every block they built was placed accordingly. The binary formations are weak with water and so they dredge them daily. This life is a construct.

It’s easy to look good in a photograph. It’s not difficult to appear photorealistic when you’ve trodden the way with care. This life is a construct.

When you’ve trod the way so sadly summer scene. When you’ve trod the way so gladly soft serene. When the cogs were slicked with shredding flesh and olive balm applied of course. At play were the words within her head. And this she said: ‘Lie down your cadavers and shrink ‘neath the waxing moon.’ An open tomb awake to darkness and the tide of sodden souls.

Open a window in interest. Force a crackled paint frame ajar in anger. Allow the manufactured air to fill your hollow. Hollow are the interests of a bondsman. Hellish are the fires that toast his marsh.

Tomorrow you will sunlight. Shine you will in various directions accordingly. Shill the chuck of your whist in the interest of brightening futures. Shell a walnut disinterestedly. Shimmer now in pale hues and wither.

We of the night salute you. We alone know your bent and leash you out. Honour and integrity. Wet sand in this hourglass. Consult you now the globe. And be good.

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Read my thing. Or don’t. I don’t care overly much. If your whim it is to read things then you’re probably at a bus stop blinking. Tremble at the tabernacle. Consume salted goods. Consume C grade meats. Consume this conundrum and shatter.

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The shelf life of a drying cadaver is hard to approximate. Reliquinish all grief in care of an elder statesman. Run now if you want to and stop dead in the street if so you desire. Death is but a plaything for you to roll around in. See you out the other.

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