The Analyst/ The Manic
This breath of fresh air and my lungs reject it. All the warm blood scolded cold. The swelling chest battered--crumpled by the brain. The wondering wanderful tyrant dashed the parade in its preparation. What fleeting infantry stands and fights is lost in the dark of thought. One more sirenge for the good time's sake. This apple will not be the habit. I am the knight in rusting armor with his wounds spilling his chivalry along the floor. This reject is a heart ache, and my head quakes with tar lakes as they rumble with the thrashing of those sentiments that stumble into it's scrutiny that bubbles with glee as it sees the demise of each promise of feeling and the sombering revelation that rises from their graves. It's black hand has true lies and and mesaging fingers to let the contents soak in. Reduce the shudder-speed and maybe we'll calm down enough just to see a little order in this chaos. This rush is crushing, the tide is beating and I am frail in the moonlight.