the lines of filth run down the inside of the glass to pool on the threadbare carpet in viscous sodden rorschach images of corose beetles eating the flesh clean off the skeleton of hope left discarded with the rest of the good feelings thjs vacuum sealed planet of piss poor expectations launched into the void of space in a malicious dump of intuitive self destruction

she smiles as her little white teeth pierce the flesh of the apple she holds daintily in one manicured hand to her perfectly painted lips of roses in full summer thrall

the webs hang heavy between the green buds of spring in flush denials seeking to strangle the new growth in the light as feather yet heavier than stone waves of decomrpession brought on by the shifting tides of total devastation brought by the mad wizards in long white coats squinting into beakers in search of answers no mortal should ever dare to grasp

the crunch and spray of sweet juice filled the room as she crossed her legs and stares with nothing but rampant hunger flickering in her brown eyes

endings and beginning are the same depending on the spinning magnetic compass of moral ambiguity inherent in the smokescreen of childhood infatuation swirled with adult understandings that the princess is not in another castle at all because the princess is a construct used to move the feeble minded hero from one end of the field to the constantly shifting goal of waking from forced slumber and narco withdrawals

it is there she resides within the dugout cubby with poorly anchored walls leaning always inward towards a total collapse that feels like coming home