Tonight our words are forming boundaries, coercing us
into this silhouette of blatant fiction. It wavers.
Oh, just then you threw your arms around me
effectively inducing Looking Glass derived
refractions.
So don't wait for us. The season's
perfect. Hold on, be still. The shadow's
coming. And we'll sing, we'll sing like
murderers in choirs. When we shelter these infractions
I'm in love. The curvature of prose completes
us. There's no substance in our lungs.

But now this condescending grandeur will seize our
rhetorical cries. I'm here my sweet Madeline.
And write me off like I'm a child I've
used up my newness in stride. I'm here my sweet
Madeline. Because the infraction in decency accents
your perception of what we imply, you fabricate your
affections tonight. And your makeshift
compassion's affectively placed when it suits
you and their compliments seem to run dry. I'll
be your default tonight. So take my kindness as a
weakness; I am benign. But still I'll hold on.
I'll hold on!
You are the consummate motion of dilated inhibitions.
Improve your net worth by negating your constraints.
You're the malevolent rupture in collective
progression. I am your sense of achievement.
I'm a fallback, I'm your failures, but
you are the one I would die for.

zu*O.o