Friday, March 9, 2012

Fuck Me Dead Head.

Sunny skies and bloody eyes and silent screams of murder.

Still whispering is the breath that resides within these ruptured lungs.

A helping hand hidden beneath a mask of broken glass.

The very mention of eventual freedom lost upon this degenerate mind.

The small sheep who've come and gone.


For the Scarecrow never dies.

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