Ramblings on 450

It's rigid form unsettles- angles, razors, violent peaks
Yet pleases, in sinister demented shades, of bleached and pallid flesh.
Bones, my bones, these bones.

I hurt, I shake, the world spins to black,
A derailed train, a broken track,
and its all coming down to the final attack,
its hard to dance with the devil on your back

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