Her breath upon her thighs, twining unknown,
Elucidating rain brings desire
Of what is diminutive space up towards face
Who’s sold the freedom!?
Yelling like an owl forced to look at the sun at noon,
What was her dress slicking down the feet,
Moving around feet,
Robbing themselves around her feet
So her nails whisper,
Who’s sold the freedom!?
Thighs and ankles towards feet.
Nobody’s free yet!
--
Pain is my aim
No time for plain
Fill their trees
With milk and soil
For aim that is in time
Isn’t a pain frame,
It is solely pain of aim.
--
Like a stunt of
notorious presence of stains she’s grasped confusion pocket of possessed Oedipus
that rid into veins of selfdom. Promiscuous and blunt; freedom of necessary
lies to follow the myth. She’s him, him is mine, mine is vain.
Procrastinated,
nonsensical game of bored sum of equal, coloured, eyes; marbles. ‘Shine vain!’,
scrupulously invited pain. Oedipus.
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