Exclusive horde of highbrows.
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Attended stag:
His lone silhouette scream
silenced by the soft, sour, rotten
terrorism of sharp consequence.
Sodden with suspicion,
folded in the corner.
Tolerably seductive story—
sob story.
The wolves exaggeration would be redundant
in a sterile town of self-pity.
Closed doors hid the fruitless hole of a lover
fucked raw with hatred and false confidence of a
fading youth.
The step-child generation:
collectively deaf, blind, dumb.
An agitated arousal to slap oneself
into blushing stupor.
When no one’s happy,
why do they love it here?
Withdraw into a shell of a relic
of what-could-have-been.
A could-have-been.
About the Creator
Maison Ray
Denver-based writer. Previously in New York to attend Pratt Institute and develop his artistry. With a self-described “violently pensive exploration of the lucid,” Maison tries to invoke an ethereal relation to the world through his work.
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More stories from Maison Ray and writers in Poets and other communities.
A Hiatus Turned Reflection
No, I wasn't dead, nor fighting off some great mystical beast tyrannizing a group of villagers. To those who look forward to what I have to say, or to put it better, write, I am genuinely sorry for my disappearance from the Vocal platform and community.
By Dailyn Townes2 days ago in Humans
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