The beat and the pulse to the pulp and they run away now and the skin is hot and wet dripping oozing we should've worn another the sky is low and dry and wishes it could be our pelt but no there is no crawling out of it no becoming this is the last bloodshed
Gripping it tight the air constricted heats up melts as if a ripe fruit in a dying god's gullet a drink for eternity's end but a breath away hoping to catch it for the coming day that of counting after one and starting again clear your throat before calling their number
Benevolent hands sweep the fields of gold and yonder turns to setting eyes the paths are laid bare towards the horizon but two feet will not walk the roots holding the road together again the pressure is immense and at once flesh becomes a fixed point in yet another one's flight