Your eye is the daredevil your hands couldn’t be.
Gaping the holes of the demonic ear lob,
and smelling fresher with your contemplated free chest.
Wire that eye to a gallery of willed beings of deadly breaths.
For my yearning stoked belly is becoming your disgust.
So, shall we be the drifters of youngsters, feeling lively scenes of mailed map.
Then call out to the wye oak and at last meet lips.
My sweet is tarted sauce transformed baked cookies and beaten seems.
Now, lovers are dying off and you are starting my heavy sigh.
We just missed it.
We just may make it.
Burning eye, bake this illusion of tasteful lies.
Cut the names of thousands in half and only be good.
Peer through the countless seductions and build that home stay for me.
Oh, magic, oh superstition, serge my power to raise the directing hope and make beauty me.
For what will come of an accident that isn’t mentioned or remembered?
What will push purpose back to relevance if we may not touch again?
Wire cutters and a swelled eye, with all the patience way back in mind,
this is infinite.
So, I will be the cure, to save the eye before it is blind.
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