Quite the exaggeration when it touches lips,
light up dull, abysmal existence-
imploding these issues into smoldering shrapnel;
charred metal (smoking gun) enshrouds control.
Reason’s checked at the door,
lost the retrieval slip,
not sure its ever meant to be found–
lies taste sweeter on this parched tongue.
Some call it fallacy,
more eloquently
we pronounce it immolation–
morals burn the stake with witch screams,
harlotry reeks of broken dreams.
Sold red-light portion of the soul,
colors indecency in tuxedo brilliance–
facades fooling in debutante perfection.
Tatterdemalion self transcends,
gallantly descends into nocturnal purgatory.
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