ʲᵃˢᵐᶦⁿᵉ erupts ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ bullethole, / & ʸᵒᵘ ᵃʳᵉ ᵃ ᵐᵃⁿ ᵈᵉᵃᵈ ˢᵉᵛᵉʳᵃˡ ᵗᶦᵐᵉˢ: ᶜʳᵘᵒʳ / ʰᵒˡᵈˢ ᵗʰᶦˢ ˢᵏᵉˡᵉᵗᵒⁿ ʰᵒˢᵗᵃᵍᵉ, ᵃⁿ ᵃˢˢᵉᵐᵇˡᵃᵍᵉ ᵒᶠ lamenting aurum / & ʸᵒᵘʳ ʲᵃʷ ᵃ ᶠᶦⁿᵉ ᵖᵃᵖᵉʳʷᵉᶦᵍʰᵗ. ⁿᵘʳᵗᵘʳᶦⁿᵍ ᵃ ᶜʳᵘᵉˡ ᵍʳᵉᵉⁿʰᵒᵘˢᵉ, / ᶦᵗ ᵇᵘʳˢᵗˢ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᶜᵃᵇᵃˡˢ ᵒᶠ ᶦᵛʸ———ᵉⁿᵗᵉʳ ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵒˡᵈ ᵍʰᵒˢᵗ, seraphic ᶦⁿᵗᵒˣᶦᶜᵃⁿᵗ, ˢʰᵉˡᵗᵉʳᶦⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʳᵒᵒⁿ ᵒᶠ ʰᶦˢ ⁿᵃᵐᵉ ᵇᵉᵗʷᵉᵉⁿ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᵗᵉᵉᵗʰ / ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵐᵃⁿᵈʳᵃᵍᵒʳᵃ ᵃⁿᵗᶦᵖʰᵒⁿ. “. . . 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐔𝐏𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐕𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐓 𝐌𝐄 ˀ” ˢˡᶦᵗʰᵉʳ, ᶜᵒˡᵘᵇʳᶦᵈ, ᵇᵉᵗʷᶦˣᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵗʰᵉʷʸ ᶜᵃᵗʰᵉᵈʳᵃ ᵒᶠ ʰᶦˢ ᵗʰᶦᵍʰˢ, / ˢˡᵃᶜᵏʲᵃʷᵉᵈ ᶦⁿ ᶦᵗˢ ᵃᵘʳᶦᶜ ʷᵒʳˢʰᶦᵖ: ᵗᵉᵐᵖˡᵉ, ᶜᵒⁿˢᵉᶜʳᵃᵗᵉ, ʷᵉᵃⁿᵉᵈ ᵒⁿ ᵍᵃⁿᵍʳᵉⁿᵒᵘˢ ˡᵃᵗʳᶦᵃ ﹠ ᵃᵈᵈᶦᶜᵗᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ʰᶦˢ ⁿᵉᶜᵗᵃʳ galore. ᵇᵃʳᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᶦˡᵏʷʰᶦᵗᵉ ᶦⁿᶜᶦˢᵒʳˢ, / ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵏⁿᶦᵍʰᵗʰᵒᵒᵈ ᵈᵉᶠᵒᶦˡᵉᵈ, ᵖˡᵘᶜᵏᵉᵈ ᵒᶠ ᶦᵗˢ ᵐᵃˡᵗᵒˢᵉ ˢᵗᵃˡᵏˢ: ʷʳᵉᵗᶜʰᵉᵈ ﹠ ʳᵉᵛᵉⁿᵃⁿᵗ, ʸᵒᵘ ᵈʳᵃʷ ⁿᵉᵃʳᵉʳ, / ᵗᵉⁿᵈᵉᵈ ᵇʸ arsenic. ᶜᵒᵐᵉᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵖˡᵘᵐᵐᵉᵗᶦⁿᵍ ᵏᶦˢᵐᵉᵗ, / ʸᵒᵘ ˢᵗᶦˡˡ ᵇᵘʳⁿ ᶠˡᵃʷˡᵉˢˢˡʸ, ᵃⁿ ᶦᶜᵃʳᶦᵃⁿ ᵉⁿᵛʸ: ᵃˢ ᵖʳᶦˢᵐᵃᵗᶦᶜ ᵃˢ ᶜʰᵘʳᶜʰᵍˡᵃˢˢ, ʰᵉᵃʳᵗ ˡᵘⁿᵍᵉˢ ᵗᵒ ᵖᵉᵃʳˡᵒᵘˢ ᵗᵉˢˢᵉˡˡᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿ. / ˢᵗᵃʳᵛᶦⁿᵍ, ᵐᵃⁿᵈᶦᵇˡᵉ ᵇᶦᵗᵗᵉⁿ ˢᵃᶜʳᵃˡ, / ʸᵒᵘʳ ˢᵃᶜʳᵃᵐᵉⁿᵗᵃˡ ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈ ʳᵒᵐᵃⁿᶜᶦⁿᵍ ʰᶦˢ ᵇᵃᵈˡᵃⁿᵈ ᵗᵒⁿᵍᵘᵉ. [ᵉᵛᵉʳᵇᵘʳⁿᶦⁿᵍ, ᵗʰᵉ ᵠᵘᵉˢᵗᶦᵒⁿ ʳᵉᵐᵃᶦⁿˢ. / 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐈𝐄 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍 ˀ ᵗᵒ ᵇᵉ ˡᶦᶜᵏᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ʰᶦˢ ᵖᵒʳᶜᵉˡᵃᶦⁿ ᵗʰᵉᵒᵍᵒⁿʸ, ᵖʳᶦˢᵒⁿᵉʳ ᵒᶠ ʰᶦˢ ʳᵃᵛᶦˢʰᶦⁿᵍ ᵐᵒᵘᵗʰ / ﹠ ᵉˣᶦˡᶦⁿᵍ ᶜʸᵃⁿᶦᵈᵉ, ʸᵉˢ, ʸᵉˢ, ʸᵉˢ. ᶜᵒᵐᵉ ʷʰᵃᵗ ᵐᵃʸ.]
ᵃᵍᵃᶦⁿ, ᵗʰᵉᶦʳ ʷᵒʳᵈˢ ᵃʳᵉ ˢᵃˡᵗᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ᵃ skeletal, ᶜᵃʳᵖᵃᵗʰᶦᵃⁿ ᵗᵒⁿᵍᵘᵉ / ﹠ ᶦⁿʰᵃᵇᶦᵗᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ˢᵖᵉᶜᵗᵉʳˢ. ᶦⁿᵈᵉᵉᵈ, ʲᵘᵍᵘˡᵃʳ ﹠ ˢᵘʳᵍᶦᶜᵃˡ: ᵗʰᶦˢ ᶜᵘᵈᵍᵉˡ ʰᵃᵘⁿᵗˢ cyanotic ᵃᵘʳᶦᶜˡᵉ, / ᵇᵘᵗ ʰᵉ ˢʰᵃᵗᵗᵉʳˢ ᵗʰᵉ ˡᵒᵒᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᵍˡᵃˢˢ, ᵃˡʷᵃʸˢ. / ʰᵉ ᶜᵃᵖᵗᵘʳᵉˢ ᵗʰᵉᶦʳ ʰᵒᵖᵉˡᵉˢˢ ᵉᶜʰᵒᵉˢ, ᵃˡʷᵃʸˢ. “ʸᵒᵘ ʳᵉᵃˡᶦᶻᵉ ᵗʰᶦˢ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵃᵐᵒᵘⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵃᵇᵃⁿᵈᵒⁿᶦⁿᵍ ᵐʸ ᵖᵒˢᵗ, ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ ˀ”
“ 𝐈 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖. ” His love splinters across the veins — colors him mosaic . THE OFFERING OF WRISTS THUSLY : bloodied tapestries —- visceral disembowelment . To be ADORED BY THE FINEST WOLVES is a gift . Chris is a violent torrent not so readily contained . Leon is the grounding snare — the gravity that brings him down to this wretched earth . He would give every organ , every scrap of this jittering ivory he calls bones to keep them safe . Perhaps their safety is assured in their more consistent presence —- closer , where they may further fuse . “ Just a suggestion . So you don’t have to go months without looking at this ugly mug . ” A KINDLE OF THE OLD FLAME . The old chris , still alive albeit with stuttering breaths . With gangly fingers does the youthful heart reach —- a collision of bramble to holy idol . Leon — the den in which this newly borne predator reigns . He retains the casual air . ( Smiles ) like he hasn’t seen countless tragedies that circle him like sick dogs . He wants to trade his armor in , for once . Pluck these sharp teeth from their rotten place in his gums . The exhaustion that snakes itself through every crevice isn’t enough to stop him — the distance smothered in favor of wrapping the bulk of those scarred arms around them . If home were truly a person — it would be them . Beautiful , indomitable .
“ I just can’t quit . You know better than anyone . ” This world is one he carved for himself with bloodied palms . Careful crucifixion — the damning of their finest warhorse . EVERY AGONY , scrawled within iron lungs . Slow , necrotic suffering .