Clenched Tooth Man

Sanguine translations emanating from the mouths of fallen seraphim’s, though they ponder the truths that people think they hear them speak. Their falsity becomes reality all to quick when stamped on with the boot of ignorance. Trepidation tries the patience of watching gatekeepers, all dreaming the same gleam in your eye.

Fledgling ideas spark into their own existence only to be vanquished by tears sown in powder thin soil. Believe my babble, perhaps one day you will be able to call it your own.

Rainbow colored seams buried deep in your mind scratch through diamonds door, though feathers might be lighter. Owning an objection to cardboard cutouts makes eating lunch in plastic containers seem swimmingly nice. Still the devil won’t give up his forked tongue for a touch of tasty holographic reality.

Tramping down lanes twisted through times broken fabric, the animal thinks in his own right. Dragged along by the ceaseless soul, slave to desires not known as his own, they say this and laugh out of the opposing corner of their mouth.

Sinew straining against rending muscle, mind manages apparent control over strings tied tight to souls translucent purpose. Throat cavities fill with noxious fumes on the journey to become voice. Lips curled in painful passion, thick with nearly dried saliva, throat taught in efforts to moderate what it fears will be a welling scream.

“Perhaps not”, thinks the tortured soul, all too caught up in exhausting itself in efforts to reign in emotion diseased body. In an instant a thousand million sons are born, and again wiped from minds wandering eye. Soul jerking bodies’ lines soon looses focus, like some vacant fog dispersed by suns ray. Slacking muscles bear evidence of battles fought between ears caught between the mighty embrace of an old soothsayer.

Multitudes of neurons futilely attempt to quantify forces best left to keep galaxies in line. The draw is powerful, chaos observed as the mistaken evidence too quick to be used to deem the clench-toothed man insane. Caverns form where soft tissue evaporates under the pressure of the truth steaming between the teeth of the fork-tongued man. Man hears words crafted in route, time being no obstacle to souls too eager chalkboard, on it drawn a map of confused understanding. Sniffing useless odors, soul bores easily, drifting into a canopy of tainted sleep.