A slice of nirvana, episodic in remorse for the untold emboldened quiz kid lounger, that one hair troglodyte’s cousin, save my soul, that ruminates in the afterglow of dawn’s resindence into the shadowless, unforgiving halo of night. I’ll be the razor’s whisk to the throat, that second of mercy before the fall of Caesar’s quasar implosion, the epitaph of a tyrant’s vacant gaze, as the dust of vengeance settles on the face of treachery, the earthen mask of hearsay evidence that defines the masses’ grievance. To the truth, lead on merry seeker. I am unnameable. I am rich in poison’s hemlock, endowed with sure fire remedies, the least of which underscore a deliberation, a tractional fortitude that breaks the backs of servile food gatherers, for I am lust… the forbidden. – Sinz
