it's about something small
to hide away, keep from safe.
it will make a bastard sigh.
fill't with gold, i sit beside Them
my social slavers and
structure-less soliloquy
on how the artifacts could never last.
there's a taste of iron in my vine basin,
though under this mound of pitch and rust
i seem to have unearthed my polished sin
SATURNALIA
