Acomist
His skin is cold, it always is and he breathes like he hasn't got the air to spare. The rhyme smooths loosely over your brain, weaving into cells.
"I'm dying."
"I'm dying."
- punctured bicyle
- on a hillside desolate
- will nature make a man of me yet?
- when in this charming car
- this charming man
- why pamper life's complexities
- when the leather runs smooth
- on a passenger seat?
- I would go out tonight
- but I haven't got
- a stitch to wear
- this man said it's gruesome
- that someone so handsome
- should care
- a jumped up pantry boy