In Response to Edible

Grief, ah this addiction. Amidst dirty laundry and filthy sinks I edge through the corridor past golden vapor ghosts.
Peril, this speculation. Boots come down crushing rotten green shag over the milky edge I escape my unholy skin.

I did it silently feeling my way toward perfection. I who committed feather pillow crimes entombed in the worthless duty of self-sacrifice.You noticed nothing. You who weighted. You the parliament. Periphrastic holy cleavage, subjunctive holy this. I sought neutrality within my wretched reflection but could not sustain the verity . I who remains muted. I the wholly profane.