Cinders

And I was searching for relief in comforting hazes, while the cinders were lain bare burning my lungs, there wasn't time to think. And I was hell bent in belief that nothing save this confusion and the ache meant nothing less than care; clarity and meaning. Voicelessness she blinks beige pockets in places, bland coffers and cases silver offers all wasted on a drink. Constant calls for me the walls screeching blame, reaching climax as I cave into myself; I stare as they do the same; lecherously. They love to watch love to carve away within the safety of the woodworks; and they call it work, call it worthiness. Call it all the bullshit you want. Call me when you're done...