Our Beast

Sleep-strained, sugar cube eyes brown like barley. Little girls run off to their mommies. "Run away, run away, run." Pounding feet calls to mortal fear. Fear to hate. Hate poured puckered fingers back in molten lava and struck us like a brand.

Perchanse this existance is the persistance of a motly craven waft that dances of an ulgy sort. Kind that hits the snot slurped, buried farce of flappy candies rotting in the wind. Immaturity breeds foul contempt of the court. Agression calls to mortal fear. Fear to hate. Hate burned the present held hands of gods sheep blood red.

And though we breed, we sink our teeth in a fleshy sack of fat, we mesh the world in our mortar crushing with our pestle, we hate. So trashy, gumpy piceses piled up on simple cares and sticking together like caramel stacked like skyscrapers high. You can't dig yourself out of the laquer filled dancing beast that takes us captive.

Because running away would never be scientifically possible.