Hive Mind: Precarious Scenario Type A

Tell me white half intoxicated blind lies,

     So I can see who works for face value, A cult of superstitions on societal revolving hearts grown jaded grotesque display beyond the hardened fashionably silent loneliness, A dance of what's breaking in the burning harmonies upon the valiant wind, A ghost whose only remedy is a whistle... Which we pretend not to feel, Hiding behind scarves and layers of unfiltered memory bricks entitled: Moments of pain; When we glimpsed what love might have looked like.

In lieu of our participation in,
Whatsoever