Sleuth had a better way,

of complaining about definitions.

 

Some things need to be mended,

quenched by walking on slippery ice.

 

If only, this dead man was not singing to me.

Avoiding the bittersweet, if only.

 

Never before, and never will?

I tried to grasp, found it impossible.

 

At my strangest, you became will.

 

Sorrow fell, neck-tight.

Pillow, nature of mornings.

 

No hustle, no hurry, no doubt!

Still feeling like falling on my knees.

 

And it almost did.

Road takes us nowhere.

 

It must be weird to think like this,

damaged, cracked and scarred.

 

Cannot think anything worse than frivolous dances with strangers that ultimately do not care, and never did.

Some you might even know. Even live with.

 

"This is a nice house. It becomes me. Let's sacrifice all the seconds away from true meaning and wake when we want to. Never awake, never sleep. Eat and you shall be what you wish upon a scar. Snakes will love you forever in this garden. Caress with withering whispers of malice. Die with me they say. And you will. There is nothing else to do."

 

A rut is hell. There is no higher power to save but yourself...

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