Waiting, the weightiness, thick burdened air, stopped at the end of her pride. There’s nowhere to run, no place to hide, go inside, get ready to ride.
Costume sliding away from her face, betraying her silent wail. Telling the tale she meant not to tell, alerting the Scorpion’s tail.
This Scorpion’s tale stings from its chair, subtle injection, die. Suffering since the beginning of time, leaving venomous trails behind.
Ghosts know the truth, bitten and stung, long were the days, not their last. Now in the darkness, light on the path, exploding to pieces the past.
Kick over the stool, drop through the deck, pointed iron through all of your truth. Befuddled, bemused, know the crowd at your feet matters not a bit less than you do.
