Six, seven, a quarter and a dime
Drag, along the blade. Sickening dagger of repetition. Like flowers fallen in concrete streets, that carry echoes of laughter past. Shallow is the grave, the keeper digs, zealous to all creation. Scream not in vain but twist the handle. Shackle down yet another soul. Through binds that crave and long. Finished with sick smile, careful approach. Yet the fool yells, screams and taunts. Pulls the mob into a frenzy. Rebel rousing, was never so much fun. Without pause, cause or debate. Jimmy and strafe down the window. Embrace the depth of the embodied. Swing under the moonlight. Stare into the deep. So long as there is a way, should there even be a will? How crass. How feeble. How stupid and mundane. Drown, pulled down by the anchor of despair. Choke, slaved to the laws of living. Puke funneled leis. Constrict on the shadow of opulence. It is rather mundane. Rather sad and sadistic.