My lung itches.
I reach in through my throat,
but the itch is on the outside of the lung.
I try… scratch through my back,
but the itch is beyong the ribcage,
my fingers don't go through.
I try to smoke the itch,
but thefiberglass worsens it.
I try to drown the itch,
but i can breath underwater.

All things expanding evermore.
No turntable for an interval.
We turn from each other.
Who is progressing, you or i?
Continuation, ceaseless…
Without aid glitch,
When will there be again?

Again, i await…
In atrophy.
You, occasional sedant.
Deliver relief of your own agenda.
Ah, motive? Never i.
While i… await…
Still… i await…
in Atrophy.

Ring a ring o’ roses,
A pocket full of posies,
Ashes, Ashes,
We all fall down

Hush-a-bye, baby,
in the tree top.
When the wind blows,
the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks,
the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby,
cradle and all.

How long has it been since someone touched part of you other than your body? ~Laurel Hoodwrit

No matter where you go or what you do, you live your entire life within the confines of your head. ~Terry Josephson

"History is written by the victors." -Machiavelli

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
- Oscar Wilde

A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic.
- Joseph Stalin

He who has seen present things has seen all, both everything which has taken place from all eternity and everything which…

Innuendo of sweet malice nearing…
Grim death dancing 'round the bend.
The memories we once thought ours for keeping,
Like the red leaves of an autumn clearing,
Slowly dagged through the mire by the wind.
Whisper of trees, melodic imbroglio!
The sweetest of sounds.
A psychotic symphony.
Did warp my head…
As was the ballad of tyrany sang,
Passed through the windpipes of time,
Carried through the ages, black as snow…
Blown by the breath of winters past.
Time and again our lives yet wane
From warm maroon to indigo.

That which I crave, sweet interlude!
That I might pause for a pulse or two,
Or might a day or four or forth!
To recall what was I hunted forth.
Indiction thrice has past me by
With naught a score of stilled comfort.
And for a beat, now ponder, bleak;
If ever such, might or not, be ensured…
Might eons more yet come to pass
And not another come to wonder
If a chron might worth a second more
Not served upon a silver platter?
And as for me I've paused and gone,
And not another strain thought
Shall again,…