Young Livers A Shortness Of Breath
Innate submission, supplied for attraction, as lines are
to form.
Only to bury and dilute this all.
And as it thickens by the moment until the crest in lust,
control until arrest.
Into remission, some heart of this passion,
Left here to linger teeming in masses and hoards of white
washed notes
Searing perception, disregard for discretion.
We are the fodder, disposed, in our youth we are getting
old.
Derived from us, in it we all drown.
Without warning it will wake you from your deepest of
sleep,
Where you’ll be awakened from these decade long
nightmares face to face
With the main objectives that were once ulterior motives.
There’s an absence of breathing room whilst waking up
screaming through
The shortness of breath.
