| tibunal | ||
| NUBIUS |
Slipping through these false compunctions, Slowly turning from the hoard, Linger on this meager tension. Over and under, Waeving our stigma, Though constant toils, Caressing my tounge, Feeding this famine, Abandon every hope and reason. Crinckle that poison set deep in your breast, Trickle down shadows and over my crest, Casting the skin of face in your hands. |
020811 |