My soul itches.
With the blatant magic of gluttony.
Lust with the absorbency of all the plagues wrapped up as, Christmas stuffs.
I am my own superstition.
Today, no belt worn.
Tomorrow, no hat.
The odds are all on the black sheep.
Never, once bitten, twice shy.
Well, maybe, the heart cannot go on into infinity…rent free.
Folksy, folks, say,
‘The moon is closest with thoughts such as these.’
The sun, the furthest, when love says,
just let it be.’