Roughly as poetic as a bag of smashed arseholes.







Scribble back.


Wednesday, 13 October 2010

5. Parasite

A scattered, shattered, shining wasteland left with hopes and dreams
The remnant of a thousand years, of industry
Discarded toys – like wrappers – here and there
Nuclear particles lie glistening heavy upon the air
This land is now a mourner in deep sleep
To recover the scars that permeate even the Deeps
Movement no longer flies across the surface;
A parasite race has first used, and second, deserted


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