fevered appeals

i cannot see, this fallacy, this faded sea, this infancy

sadness, madness, sorrowful morose, singular, modular, scented malaise

shake the plastic eight ball and show me my future, all of my answers hidden in the murky blue depths

all signs point to the emptiness

the uncertain certainty of cerulean cynicism sinking softly into saline daydreams of of her sensual serenity

she whispers laconically into my eerie silence

humming a melody of tuneless abandonment, issuing chills down my spine as nails rake my face

lost in the fever, lost in a dream

iron bands around my chest, fluid in in my lungs, barely able to breathe

and all i see is her face smiling out of reach

so i shake that plastic eight ball, my fifteen dollar fortune teller, and lose myself in the deep blue mysteries within

it says to try again later, but i’m all out of time

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