…Finding Wings For A Junky…
By jaria saent
sold days dance before dollar drawn carriages you'll find both sides of the street paved, hating the fallen stars that now dance before his collared eyes, drawing from within the ultra-violent behavioral studies of laid down in time beings, this is what you think of me? conjured through the hollow grasp of a saint that walks the trails torn and tattered no more, but bound in thorns to find the roses dance before his conjured interior having a heart seemed to find the feathers of fallen birds resurrect the tortured beings, ghosts float through hovering over the theories that mind-states can't find the damning denials of ugly duckling philosophy's, gift the moments, torn like tokens in the amusement park that frequents the breath of this torn through giant, flying with wings of crows, a murder, torn for certain, an accident bound by ambivalence, a scissor cut tearing through paper mache ideologies, leaving an open sign between the sheets of this torn through junky prodigy, sure the good die young, the old find their way into the hearts of the masses when their hands where torn from bleeding fabrics of familiarity, surrounded by cats, bound and strapped down, fighting the whole way, to find the days bound in clay drawing out tears for the fallen angle guided through the days, saved, as the streets paved, find a heart and juggle it in the dark, leaving the worlds far apart, never to know those who live as a dream in this torn through world of art, not finding a way to believe in the start.
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