The waste becomes a way to synthesise disillusion. Wondering what scars will heal and which will not. A verifiable token of esteem. Wittered away easily when complaints are done with the advent of mercies. A killing is in the offing. But we orchestrate to demonstrate and what use are we to argue? Twisting words decide what lies we can break with underneath. The small whisperings amid the low lying noise filters. The tarantulas working their way out of perspex ovens. What are we to do but accept the living fate of lives lost underneath. The traps used to ensnare and the little cost to look at illicit photos decry the path of an idiot's errand. A poor fool who wants to retreat into invisibility. Boundaries forged and crossed. The contents left unsaid. A matter for reflection but rejection is the final sum. A horrible context but somehow unsurprising. The theatrical appeal of being good running hollow. It's all so desperate and disparate to be dispiriting. If I only survive tomorr...
The secret garden of despair.