don't worry. don't climb. don't see.

we're gonna tell the torrential face, sacred scum bag.
this is not the last of the life they knew or collapsed in.
this is just the creeping mystical nuances.
questioning practically all neverending screaming, you're doing it into the skyless mind that betrays my ears.
this is not the last.
last is not the end or first or beginning. can't you not understand the immediacy of the crumbling tower? the guard is calling for help, and you just left him in the rain falling snow, blanketing is every move.
this is not the last
don't worry/don't climb/don't see
years have danced on your open palms
just as they have done to millions of other tree barked mistresses.
don't worry
the white pretty bearing skyward is nearless.
its eating away the insides of the carcass you cling to.
but it still does not understand the meaningless ecstasy that permeates your gifted follower.
ruminates on the ground of intimacy, clutched around the treacherous.
this is but the last.
greet the mass.
one hundred trials by fire later and it still is cut short/horrible insight, darling.
return, baby, teach your self to learn.
this is not worrying.
this is not caring.
welcome to the post-century yearning disorder.
wave goodbye to the insane, wince at the light, burning holes into your immune corruptibility.
trade your soul for several yearly prizes, spend a little more to toss in a few prizes.
watching everything at once overwhelms your bleak, barren, and bland. overlooks the passage of time, death, welcoming and expressions.
i will say
goodbye/or
the end.