A dance with its red palm.
Stranded within your own hand.
Blood pressure squirming.
Innards rubbling.
Trombones scraping.
Keys shifted.
Skinned souls devoted.
Its Servent's piercing the veils.
Black dresses surrounding the area.
Mourning the loss of one.
Vitals fading into its abyss.
Bottom belted crawlers promise a chance.
The transit of personnel equipment concluded a false faith.
Drifting into a single talkative state.
Questionable's salute to a misunderstood constellation.
Natural ports falsely invalidated.
Tones of love and forgetful memories plague my consciousness.
Calming scales of misshapen saints revolve our prance.
The Distance between solitude and truthful liars -
Concretes a aura of pressure and deep predictability.
Trickling red substances seep through the depths of this mortal form.
No tranquil motions.
Many horrid commotions.
Solid devotions.
With little to no productivity or the promise of unlisted promotions
This is -
Deaths Prance.