Long ago we saw that love, profundity, boredom and rage
Were nothing more than colours.
Hues and timbres applied to a blank canvas.
But the canvas rotted like a lie we couldn't be fucked with.
Now contentment, hate and joy paint with men
and the faces creak like fabric stretched too far.
((( Ŧĭмŏŧђ )))
- moth
- Like the serenity of asphalt, Timoth was a joke he couldn't stop playing on himself.
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