Written by Brenda Mox
He was a taciturn Hamlet of a fellow, persisting in his clumsiness, conscious of his defenselessness.
Being powerless to preserve privacy of well bred emotional anarchy, the flippant youth laughed no more.
Selfish he was, in a mental way. His mind filling with mists of nothingness. Into this void, all energy would collapse.
Seemingly impersonal, almost to idiocy was his willful blank dreariness and whining sense of the ridiculous.
Buttocks beautiful with delicate manliness, he sat like a skelton in hard, erect passivity, deep within depths of darkness and hopeless inertia.
So strong in his frailty was his sense of injustice, and his wolfish dark downslopes of darkness.
Words wrung with gloomy portentousness and owlish, arty staring reveal with utter ugliness, the stray dog soul of an inquisitor.
Like a mummy tangled in bandages, his expression of wild motionless distraction become manifestations of madness, inspirations of insanity’s sadness.
Text © Brenda Mox
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