tongue running over each finger, like that.
The crust is crunchy the filling sweet,
a tumultuous soul of the beguiled feet.
Manufactured stories do the chemicals bare,
while delusions of grandeur from the mirrors stare.
Haunting memories of many lives betrayed,
Dante's Inferno flavors the pink lemonade.
Trust in nothing but the ability to re-frame,
callous and careless assets of the intellectually lame.
The inner child grown pale from the abuse...
locked deep in the chamber of one so obtuse.
Warranted and compelled the wingless bird,
tries desperately to deliver the lost child's word.
From the bowels of bureaucracy it soulfully ascends,
crawling through the guttural and visual sins.
Landing on the nose and staring straight into the eye,
it collects with fervor the energy for one final cry.