Ditractors hurt the cause.

Biting my lips, crushing my teeth. In awe of the mundanity. Alone in my room. Just abandoned myself.

As our troop feasts on my decadent blood. Alpha to your beta; the omega takes control. Where one stands, one not knows. Knuckle walking to the promise land. Asking for more.

Oliver of my ladle. Stealing my ladle. Strapped inside a merry go round. Until it spins down to bolts and pieces.

Drinking their shit. Whatever they taste. Within its sheathe assumes the sword. Slakes the gut. Scars the face.

Removing shrapnel like splinters. Sweet caste of relief. Wherein nothing is the expectation. But bold intent.


Clovers copy 4

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