Your walls like a row of Dominos. Twist a jagged blade in thighs. I imagine a trip through fields of corn, cities swelling in their soot. To meet scorched dream half-way. Giving acid, rancid tears a better, proper burial.
Games are smarter than our souls.
Ending them is easier than writing all the rules again. Cards and pawns, shining their swords on bishops of death. Sitting as all children do on pinched raw nerve, assuming age has better hands to strut in rained parades of time. There are no other ways to sing. Agony's portfolio was rubber-banded all these years.