Chasm

     Your own sympathy is a possession, as if we don't look out for better or worse. How we don't change what gave us an obsession. Book our stories the way we curse strange detail into little parts. We're merely time just like how our hearts rhyme pain, immerse our imagination, sublime, our minds will never show when we're the same, you're my glass frame.

     Poising carnage spines can hitch our backs, how we blade our percipient, our detachment from nature, our scars like gaping vines who will lie before death will thirst our dark covert hives. Seek knives for blood, first heart minds, than we die from every single breath, who am I from our lives.

     Reclaim visage as what you do because when you don't find what you love can make you provoke status.