Prisoning Season

This is the time of Justin. Indian Summer pressing my back to bleed. Pain breaks and drips arounds the nails of my toes to rub in the shine. A pressence of love less made; the ache of loss,or fantasy built around your life, dropped like an eggshell over a steel nail.
Imprisonment of reality, you only live in dream or memory...while shadows of life lure me in to humble myself , trickery of tears to summon the pain. I trample through the sick cardio, raked beyond enjoyment and left less subtle.
Your series of contradictions must end. I absorb you; fill on you. You channel me. I'm through.

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The mind, a dormant stone

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