The world was curled into the palm of my hand, stars gleamed from the pupils of my eyes wide with want of land, I had a fist-full of explosions for any which body that would have got in my way, I would have rammed a sticky-bomb rucksack into your pretty porcelain face. Instead, I cleanse the water of blood realising the fountain of youth was destroyed in the debacle between falsity and truth.

All that time ago: ticks now passed and tocks now done, I would have traded my life for yours to rid you of what you felt was wrong. If I had an inkling to the sinking in my brain, if I had an idiom of belief it would even be this way, I would never have portended to a deal with a king at the foot of my sunflower garden that day.

I would go gallumping back to the house in the woods where the cackling trinity of witches stood, and curse her beans with black magic turned good. You would have seen the echoes of my ghetto voodoo triggers made from fiction replacing fact. The enchanted forest wouldn’t kerb the force of the menacing yet fatal clack-clack-clack and from afar, you’d mistake it for the wood-cutter heaving his heavy axe, but it was the growling wolf who found little red losing all composure and tact.


Her shoes are worn, cut with rocks, they are not even made of leather, her laces are frayed and wasting, lost, dirty, untethered. The holes absorb all the rain which in itself is not so bad, but the puddles are deep and endless, dressed in loneliness and rags. She would dive into the narrow darkness, drink up the muddy water in hell underneath your tired feet, just so as she could regain her lucky penny, imbuing disgrace and succinct matter of facts would help grow the rose from the concrete.

Eyes are weary, head is heavy, her heart is torn and glum, downward pull of gravity tires her spirit and his and then some, if he gave her a kiss from the treasured frothy crest of a foamed ocean wave, she would be looking at the reflection of a humming bird instead of the barrel of a shotgun in a very shallow grave. She plays with dice, the dots are erased, her day is done and her numbers are up, she is here, and he is there, each adeptly adrift in the easterly winds of intoxicating pain.

ink is free, so...

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