The Line my Friend

The Line.jpg

The line lays out straighter than a preachers verse, no deviation of the correction to want to fall either which ditch deep option that beckons on the damned from either side and no shot in hell to upset the obsidian black bleakness that etches every ounce of hatred imbued in that charred lump you once called a heart.

So into ears it pours a tempting concoction of honey filled poison verse to fan the willing destructive want to misstep so easily that way astray of the aforementioned line, upon which hangs the survivalist bar steward you threatened to brand with the cursed word so scorned; your name.

Welcome my friend to where mirrors run freely the reddened run off of bloodied faces that hath sanely smashed in energetic fever the reflective mocking of those coldly condemning eyes so set sunken into bag heavy sockets, sleep lacking in persistent style to competitive rivalling of the will to live as faded, fated and fatally flawed.

An ill word the right of you, a razor lining the musically grand chorus of skeletal dancers to morbidly sing in the angle of pain killers and warm baths to the left but what lies ahead of the fractured shell that slowly drip drip leaks the soured soul you sacrifice to keep moving on.

Resenting all the merry hue above callously littering confetti style around your head in almost piano heavy hail storms of what you lack to hold, to call that fickle sense of finished bottles rattling from endless pockets of vodka fuelled hate.

The line my friend is not so much a measuring mark of geological locations where sanity/insanity said to call your own reason to continue torturously, fail not to see the nature below surfaces of canyon high thread wide paths of fractured dreams.

The line my friend is the border to which all that caresses the poison has been laid to the side of where your still remaining and ever drunken crying sense of right holds hell at bay, sinful condemnation a lure to summon all the ills of a life lost to eternally howling regret to further the vodka into your veins.

The line my friend a barrier along which venom flows river fast and furious fashion in dapper sharp razors to cut the lesser fools who swim too deep into that corrupted pool, a hallowed hollowing of empty pain watered by the venom deep.

So safely slow step careful on the line my friend, the name we brand in burning words so bluntly stamped on this thing you walk is the borderline, borderlining where all the blessed need not watch but where paranoiac pitched warning sirens screech should you angle your feet just a tad either which way too far either side.

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