Beaten or Saint. Fallen victim to the night sweats of staining desire and the eggshell thin facade that spider cracks with each breathless pant, each writhing moan. May those backs break like will. Crack, crack, crack. May those wills break back. Crack, crack, crack. In there is a truth, among the candlelit tremble, swift moving archways and bridges built, collapsing, granting and yielding. Crack, crack, crack. Who is this wrapping blood knuckled on the door of tomorrow, but the feigned kisser, the uncommon well-spring of a Saint that started downstream with such crushed vertebrae common in the death of silver, tarnished at those starting depths where the fire hunger consumed parchment light and echoed in the dark, a missive, a silo, a wretched little penchant for the corrupt praise and so thick, so deep, it rises, breaching night’s surface and shatters that solemn promise of ending the curse. Crack, crack, crack. Goes the vow, the lineage longer spent in suffering than a Saint could allow, the begger, that Beaten. The fool, that Beaten seed. Crack, crack, crack. Smile rich and flesh devoured with the ease of slipping fingers and daring tongue. Crack, crack, crack. Oh, how the rich ones fail, the dainty ones dodge, the troubled seek, the unkind relent and still the mirror whines for truth. Crack, crack, crack. So thirsty for fresh roots, recovered soil, blank slates and the fresh chalk of her powdered cheeks. In her smile, there’s a whole. In that fevered exchange, plied by the bottle, the sin, the drive, the appetite, the answer to such angry wonder, a half moon at the end of a search for full sun. Half and half, always. Half and half, Saint. Half and half, Beaten. Half and half. Crack, crack, crack.
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