Wheeling Weak Week: Day 8 of the Spectrum

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     Now you repose unprotected, no longer am I sinking in your wake of my eternal wait, so hear my prose for we are as embarrassed as we were before we fell in and leapt out of this damnation called: rapturous adoration.
     Warped was the unconventional, misinterpreted was the obvious. Fear and lacking gathered us here today to this fun urinal, we, together as one against all others, for the final time of our union as I perceive to be perfection, are the flies pissing from the seat at this miserable Lake of a wake of the dead Red salty Sea.

     For geographical comprehension of pitfalls, look away from the fizzled black dwarf consuming your singular concept of a truly dead star you maniacal imitation of a mind of a lunatic of Christ-like confessions! The only parade marching has been you drumming right along to the beat of a long exhausted trifle.
     A supernova: surrendering to the gravity of the unknown for your Death and Resurrection Show. Instead, you chose to tread the event horizon as a result of your distracted boredom of God knows what in the physical universe. Your spans spanning elsewhere, where other female kitchens, roam still… undesirable by you as a party of the state unless dead thereupon the doorstep after conception.

     In absence, we all look away from the sun we subconsciously believe shines brightest, yet, why does it hold so easy for you to gaze into the abyss? Staring into you, consuming first your outstretched hand scantily holding the very invitations to your own beheading, you’re the mirror of the blankest stare, what are you doing—!


     And I, am just a reflection
     And you, just a projection
     Of my disgusted images.

     To be up this high on the tightrope, we must fare—

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