aniphx

I Sang Her Pain. i, too, sentence me to myself re-germinating each and every kindled par; dipping them in a chestpump vat; all those crested pumps, manufacturing normalcies like tadpole progenies, limbless so; unspecial. what is this, my hue and cry to perish? succumb? eyes only meld into duets of tearstain, to the fore. forgoing he who thaws my memoir/s with an incineration-- while i assume i must elude life, flanking aloneness; stillbeat, a stillbeat. fit to die; never more fit to die. i, too, sang the pain.