Facepaints on forearms.

The sidelines of the match crowd with
hostilities,
misguided hostilities -
Cut-up pieces of bits of memories,
conjured-up fragments of sorry instances.

My back is the only canvas on which you can comfortably write,
knowing it'll stay hidden;
subconscious loss of control flows out sometimes.
Cursed dams split and mental gates let loose
(a flood of unaware desires) -

Stay oblivious, it becomes you.

Atrophy of degeneration,
a beautiful paradox -
And the world is now bathed in an orange glow.