Lying like mudd,
steadily breathing,
a useless heap of crap
What am I good for?
a glowing TV transmits pictures and sounds infront of me,
but I lay there like a blob even so, casting time away,
and what happens to desires that get sucked down into thick, squishy mudd, suffocating and slick?
A hot surge,
breathing deeply,
a moment of sinful memories and desires flashing.
A ghost of a body lies next to me,
I can hear its empty breath, so hot and heavy and softly tender like the touch of those finger tips.
Hours pass, and I fossilize in this mold, I'm heavy pale stone, no longer slick and smooth, but hardened and cracked,
nothing can slide into me,
I'm dangerous like 1,000 thorns,
and all this time my blossoming violet bleeds without meeting the epitome of new life.
