On my turf, earth is earth, not to be re-imbursed,
Cursed by the God’s of good; appear to be illusionary at first.
Luscious fruits from the womb of thy’ purse,
Infinite-bit resolutions of flavors overwhelm-fully burst.
Need not to ever nurse back to full health,
Need not to ever attempt to restrain with a belt,
Even the hottest of liquids; sure to melt.
Never take two steps forward, always take three steps back,
Take it slow and patiently, you are sure to get right on track.
Proof of my armor fatigue pack,
Too quick to grab me, too quick to snatch.
Un-stitch the patch, undo the latch,
Pin-point accuracy, enough too strike the wettest match.
Lotions never infiltrate my turf to be moisturized,
A Purple Heart Award; remember you of “The Click by Suicide”.
Too bad you had to die, before you even came alive,
Perfection is to what I live for, and for that..., that in which, I thrive.
Adding your comment:
ing alone,