The stench of chrome
it don't extinguish.

The acid foam is bitter to the taste
In case we win this
we don't boast wages.
The winner can say
what he wants when it's finished.

The brain matters
and the heart don't distinguish
The images we collect in our heads
Its a bit over the line
It's too much.
It's our secret.

Some like it hot.
The others keep it a secret.
The microscopes picking up cross contamination
The red dotted line we cut with our fingers
A slithering rope.
A slippery ramp
We're liable to
Hit the pavement
It's our one weakness.
Written by Dreamboy
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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