The Tongue Of Blades

The Tongue of Blades By Hunter Brickley The night, enclosed, claustrophobic, downcast. The crickets, trumpeters of doom, As the sweat rolls round place up my natural covering. Will the sun come up, make the day, Will tout ensemble my fears be swept away. Or will the night, clinging tight, Pull me back to my grave. -Hunter Brickley                  The halls glistened white, the black boys had done their hypothesise well. That was good, the beast had instilled fear; no, abominate in them. They were driven by it, out of their minds.         The savage was coming.         The claws were long, the work force were clenched chunks of iron. The language, the tongue was sweet yet sharp. Lilting, yet cutting with the blades of hate. Her eyes were dickens beads of black stone. Alternating Red, Black, Red, Black. abscission into your very heart, disecting you art object by insignificant piece. Laying you unfastened for all to see.         The Beast was coming.         She walked down the hall, the metal soles of her polished black shoes clicking against the floor.

click off the minutes of our sanity.         Her name was take up Ratched. She possess this place, place, this polished hell. She ruled with her tongue, she would slice you up and vomit you out before you knew what was happening. She was subtle, slipping little things under your bark that seemed painless until you started to bleed. If you want to get a full essay, differentiate it on our website: O rderEssay.net

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