I have a huge apathy for masochistic things,
So I cannot decipher the large; now timeless red lines...
Cosmos popping through the ground; keeping the connection.
I am ambivalent for their progression,
Far from genius; too much imagination,
They diatribe their wrists; the fair skin,
Far from a gigantic teratoma covering.
They massacre themselves as the skin separates; dissection,
They prune themselves violently; ebullient blood,
To slice a pie; no problem at all;
To read the slices; almost like braille; as the world gets dark.
There parents with all the materialistics; inheritance,
As the coffin;
Under layers of heavy, heavy dirt;
Is held with a tight cinch.
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