The wolves have been silenced for far too long. Who will hear the cries among these dying men, of which I am one? For so long we have bled. The wounds peel. Agony, nonetheless, however ironic it may be, gives us hopeful memories. There was a moment out there in the darkest silence where the cool of her touch cut deep into my fear struck heart. Who among the hierarchies is prepared to fall at the hands of the children of disobedience? My eyes roll backward in time and my staggering feet echo in the halls of chapel concrete. Engulfed in flames a palette such as yellow orange hues. I am surrounded by disconsolate matriarchs. Let ritualistic monuments and fumes of indigo bring forth a choir of violin church men. Praise the burning of groves. The wolves enslaved howl for the odes. I grow quite amused at the thought of nothing left but the remnants of their entrails. Mine as well. Such beauty in pain and pain inflicted on thyself. Such beauty in pain and pain which nothing can help. Such ruinous entities as these, blooming as a rose, burning from the stems. Hounds howling at the moon glow, the usual face of grace as it slips into endlessly spiraled sailing ships. Whirling sand blanketing the crescent lake as to cover up hidden stars of bleeding scars. Overflowing pools of unused stanza’s meant for the only one. Years of the same October being carried away in a carriage. My sweet porcelette, sinking ships feel your worries. Ambient echoes in the walls of where you used to inhabit. The vibrations are so sonic, they bleed of you, then drip to dust on the bleak flooring. Covered in ash, I am nothing ever. Time traveler of nowhere substantial ever. Our death itself only beautiful as performance art forever. The fog has settled just above the trees. These beasts of night, carry them away into the endless horizon plateau. Caressing tombstones echo like hollow bones. Death to your breathing life.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
