Alone outside at Christmas, the flowerpots are dangling from the arches, frequently the smoke from factories rises in the distance, and lays against the sky in breathless admiration.
A pale purple tilt comes sweetly as the taste of dew, wakes the wonder from the bore and passive place, taunting cavalries and blushing over mounds of mourning, safe from the horror of sad and swift returning
Awake from the amusement, portraits paintings, silver edge and sliding, in between the sky and sunrise, how death had lived and died by increasing rich designs against the backdrop of swell seasons.
I am against this torture, infinitely scream against the resting of tomorrow. Breathing backwards, full fever skin settled over wounds forever, drill deeper, cuts heal quicker when plasters cover all profusions. Pain, soft, scary and unsettling, Christmas in June, factory sickness by symmetry.