the feud

Concentrated in the form of orange juice, sliding smoothly down what we call the outrageous sets of exaggeration. Let it drop sip the drink, hit the boy with the plague so he stops in his feet. lacking skill and beat. all alone in a crowd, crying endlessly for a drink hoping to sink into the mortal past of which he so lovingly desired. Where the heart lived on a swing, swishing happily with a dame who sought greedily for passage into a door which did not exist in her opinion anyway. When broken, the silly boy would seek out his heart in the gravestones of its lovers. Lacking wisdom and security he held to the names lying still below the now grass covered domes of dirt and bones. His last thought which slurred slowly through his mind was pondered for a few. Still wondering if death were the answer for his feud. Such a name to be held higher than a king. Such a man to be loved in an unordained sort of passion and when this happens, the lights dim low and the chests beat fast in a corresponding rhythm to a song both knew all to well for such a young age. But when plastic fails and pharmacuetics lie only you will hold the key to life. such a desire placed in the unprepared. But nobody likes the pulp in orange juice anyway