The Wax Conspiracy

Fingernails are pretty sinking deep into the neck

Round and round the neck they go.
Sinking deep the fingers sow.
Over and up and through the skin.
Tear away and let them in.

And so goes "the afternoon." Sun high overhead following the breakfast run from "the horizon." Leaving a pool of dark brown darker around the arms and legs. Salt grows around the webbing and turns to "white." Oh, they will and they won't. All part of the mischief from their quarters by half.

Taste the desire. Taste what they perspire. Feel the life sapping away under the mire. Two thirds of the fraction and a percentage gain leaps up and bounds across the course.

Run it fast and run it hard. With nothing left to lose, who dares wins by default. And there are losers. There will always be losers. Losers fill the walls. Losers fill the halls. Losers always fall.

This is life. The strife of might. Of taking the next step with eyes wide shut.

Ethan Switch

Written on Wednesday, 9 January 2008

The Wax Conspiracy


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