Melted by this Mess

Hot flesh-pressed – distressed.

Iron truss, melted by this mess.

Thermal conductor…

molten-gold-lined Soul corrupter.

Still I reach; flesh burns,

I convulse, heave, and retch. I, wretch.

I watch your world turn,

embarrassed – stomach sickly churns.

Rewind the burn, push

back into the old, folded age

of Scorched Love, the Rush

busted – pieces of Lust.

© CGT, 2017.

Talk to me.