Not to prove a point,
We drone over the same inconspicuous letters, failing to retrieve the light at the end of the tunnel. The layer settled in, for but a moment, transforms to portray the depth of poisoned lips selling the brutal strand they have become.
Sip from the broken, rotting cup as its mocking life ingests tormented, precious toxins.
A solution to the most notorious of troubles.
As we all crawl, dig and succumb to the disease we now imitate; points arise, sharpened but incomplete.
A forgotten lake hides the forbidden drop that started it all.
We can dive to complete it or to end it.
Decide for yourself what you take from this.
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