Baronhawk's Nest

How it cloys and toys, twixt here and now, toiling the paces, yet still remain . How it flips and flops, drips and drops, coursing barbed wire, through melodramatic veins. Tis like a cut, and yet it's not, the pain is real, despite the thought. And yet to heal it, one must distort, that which is real, to what is not. Though I'm replete, completely lost, to walk the deed, too great a cost. Suffer indeed, sans recourse, for tis the nature, the whimsy of the lost.