she was seldom sure just how to swallow his slyness, so she clung to his lips like winter's slippy surfaces and sang of fuel that failed to find his flavours:
he was snowflake that refused to burn against the skin of his sins...and confessions, that skated along hate with considerable chill; whilst her soul wandered amidst streets of her steam-filled sighs...
she was poor, lost, covered by canopies of extended meanings and shrouded in metaphors much longer than her harms and she seemed to depend upon the ends of her state, so that her smiles would swing sideways and so she could push pens through the lenses of eager stares.
he rolled right up to take a profitable bite, whilst turning perfect-fits inside her first times, and she hugged his various voices until value formed a fist and she caught glimpses of his gains
so she tossed him a ring full of contradiction and set his stains running on tongue's cracked old track, as she dripped honest skies on his parafin facades, whilst persuading him to perform to the wit of her whip
and he danced for lost chances to form fabrications, as emotions etched theories underneath tarnished slits...and she stole hope's glory from memory's wage, so expressions could prance upon ceiling's release.
she was seldom sure just how to swallow his slyness, so she wrapped herself slumbered and managed the cold, while hands told of big-tops, of clowns and of bombs.
)
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