Thick, crude oil drips in the groove.
You’re a forlorned mechanism moved, suited to bleakly radiate and the mind complying fabricates. -Piss stains, pissed off, pistons- hit and missed ones and still goin’. -Gears ground, years drowned, sound fear- there’s no reason for that here. - The sound of a system reverberating neglect, haplessly cycle to affect. The output is a put-off but instinct can flame a moth. Combust, rustily spewing distrust, "Must I be taken into machine…?" Now an emission upon your admission. "…as i die a living thing?"
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Jonathan MayJonathan May has grown to know his natural surroundings in Appalachian hills of Southeast Ky. He has two published works in the literary journal,"The Cut-Thru Review," and maintains his wonderment in life pursuing a Biology degree at Morehead State University. |