athena bell

By spinning hitherto the miles of tedious tirades;
Suffering the delations and kickshaws of the simple;
I feel the rest of the fast must come to me after awaited
For centuries. So, as I tell you now,
I sit below the cicatrice formed by the monotonous,
That patiently stays ‘til thou can have no self-flattery.
Bestraught,
Amidst the swirls that wilt the mind until, bottled,
Might find the release of it’s yearning,