The wasp it enters the cage a**uming its reason an old routine of any student of shame she slips in her resin to dine on the fey The resin turns into a seed with every intent to follow the trend of disease, fevered in crimson shade So as i wait for it, the kismet, the fated verbal-sadism to sink in
my doubts they shake hands with the cancer let the game begin Slowly it takes hold and i wither in shallow breath for i, the whitefly aphid, lost control seemingly an anchor, knowingly the wave.