Lasa Mitovy

Back from the black and only fifty percent ready, compared to the impairment, I’m getting my flair decent. There is always a chance to return to former glory, the story was only paused for the meantime, slacked in rags to defeat a mean rhyme, or combine a firefly to a lie or the night sky. Stars or the scars of a simple complexity, an arrested elevation of serenity. Pot luck is the enemy, owed to the code from the ride of a lifeline. Flicker, quicker, from the hologram, only a gram, essentially the lining of an apology advertising some monster ingesting the rest before the primary.

Grinding on free styling and hiding behind a beautifully constructed fallacy, the gravity to be bold and behold a special depravity, beats the before and after in the mind of this calamity.  Why would you rip off the plaster? The wound is tombed, not suffocating, cease the hating it’s grating, I’m just late to achieve or deceive the belief to be microscopic. So sure, shoot your gums, I promote peace but that won’t defeat them. Might have to greet, sweetly, chocking the coal fire correctly, tie fighting the lightning from the quiet burger slicing fry cooks enlightenment, maniacally indemnified as dignifying.

Smile finally from overly overt and subsequently erecting lies that comprise her eyes. Despise, rise or fries the eleventh speech this week that claims to save the planet. We’re so far past that, the fights over they told you the truth is supposed to engross you, or superimpose you, we’ll just have to see how enjoyable electricity is when the tide erodes you. Peace could be a currency, they just can’t see that behind the ivory tower the hour of reckoning is soon to chant epidemically. Eventually, the notion of war will rest hideously and forever be a guide in history, of how to approach another life peacefully.

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