...without saying it
The mask's slipped.
Slid down and
wont fit anymore.
The foundations shake.
Let the cat
out of the bag
and
into the box, but
things are decaying.
The poison seeps through and
kills you,
Pet.
Till all you're left with
is
bones
and moth-eaten fur that's
never going
to keep nobody warm.
Friday, 28 January 2011
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