VampireEmbers

Tighten the blindfold as you plant mines in the fields where flowers should go, and be picked. Tread stumbling under a drunken veil as your rioting nerves loot the last remnants of reason within you. Allow your sanity to fall victim to the systematic madness, that from day one grew within you. Pity will be that rusted shovel to fills one of the open graves that already inhabit that dreaded field. The graves, merely open wholes from the former seats of mines, from this song and dances history. What more can be done, past the repetition of returning to square one, fallen on a sword of false humility? The con is no longer clothed in