(no subject)
Betrayed first by my waist. Subtle lines in each hand belie untruth. Time is a myth. I am unbecoming. Fruit of our loins spill round about me in relentless laughter, play, mischief. Their smiles! What source? I get beneath the carpet of conversation and unravel each thread. Without a new view. Art craves perpetuity from escape. Chained joy, hunched back and gradual at the middle. Frequenting a memory yields no reward. Ever less my self than ever before.