on guard.
perry
(lunge)
cut.
blood.
stained soul.
lingering scars.
tenative of repetition,
fear the loss,
because the cleaners
keep calling in sick.
and i'm not really sure
hot to make things
sparkle...
like Pledge on a table.

The words are sharp,
and the reached vibrations
are piercing,
but it's the dull dust
that seems to cling
to the cracks;
and there's nothing,
there's no one,
who can scratch it
from it's permanent home.
where it will cause permanent
frustration
to all those who pass.
and perhaps,
the occasional
allergic reaction.

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Vita, in the year 541 AD.