Something from my thoughts:
Fire tosses above charred wood indivisually, it licks the shared brisk of the cold that tugs at times, consuming what purity that bear its name. When shall one do, it’s innate to succumb, what shall one do when immured in a cyclonic purgatory of the cerebral. There’s no way out, a silent weapon that has overwhelmed the majority, that has fondled the strong and disintergrated the high IQs.
It burns, slowly singe-ing brain cells needed for the most mundane features–thoughts of love, affectionate abilities, and suddenly rational has become replaced by an erosion of pessimism that festers into everything you are not, provoking the soul to hate and admonish the most solemn beliefs…
This is heat….
To be coontinue.
Categories: Terry Little