Creased veins, why – WHY do you even sucumb to an abberations of distress?
My dormant claw clutches the locked door’s key, gripping tenaciously,
Waiting oh-so patiently for the alteration of an all but distorted time.
The boiling point has consummated a house-hold honor,
Held so dearly to the seed of an infertile fruit -
I ALWAYS knew what it was, but still I number a delectable countenance.
And, like my manifested gifts, my unopened presents – I aspire to compress my lips,
While my wretched tongue drags across the morbid flesh of vile, yet angelic indecencies.
I’m talking to you, so get away.
Get away.. but not by a measured distance – ONLY by a displeasurable bond,
One of which was shared, but one, who was a witch, all but cared.
I then let the key dangle from a rusted chain…
Waiting to watch how I waste my time waiting…