Trapped


Time doth spake of yester tones, the advocation of thine devils breadth, linger to for’er nary a conundrum so vast a man’s eye hath thwarted vision unsurpassing it borders. Thither hence to squandered hope sitith the beleaguered porcine nature of mankind.

To whence morsels engrained in a miasma of drowning ember doth realise. The eternal visage of the enburdened wastelands tortured embodiment. Ist thou lacking of fortitude, doth he who faltered desire a prime oratory to seek the stars light on a hidden path passed Ill gotten judgments stern finger tips.

To be held by ageliscismic intention hast thine mired conclusions brought but empty consequence. So to doth a treatment of inward vision inspect no further clarity. Who hath for’er to bare such withered markings, the eclipsing of a darkened brow feel’st as cold as death’s Cheshire grin in the hearts of lesser men. Art thou lifes cruel fate to be undone by death, to have yet to start or finish but only a wasting of ones soul.
The fires lick as time then devours, an afeared man loost upon the chattered shores of his own purgatory. As the curtains drawn so heavy upon him, keeping his straying eyes from dreaming of a world beyond, So to doth from whence he came remain closed. How hath a man found such a confounding predicament. For truth Hast a man’s inert presence bloomed thist poisonous of fruits.

Lead me straying, seeketh thine omens of malcontents, be thy trusted cartographer of painted shadows of a way out. To taken steps I feast so kindly, through vanished breath I see it all. the last remnant of unguarded eyes, a phantom of an age forgotten by time.

Lamentation


canst you e’er stop…

thy doth not wish to unburden thine mind of availing turmoil, thoust revels in the overture of unbridiled fear and madness.

i spake of a time from whence time was pure, for’est thou doth thinkst time is but phalisy of late, so to doth thou stop feeling pure of heart as consequence?.

is thy nature to falsely interperate reality, doth my perseption faulter o’er is a truth not be thine environment inhence be illusory.

i off’t thinkst a prediliction t’ward predation is’t mire affliction el’st hind nature rend implication on a wiser tounge.

selfly aware is’t my lamentation, such dolorous a personia doth mine own intrigue make of thee, must thou alway live’th in such squandry and befuddelment, shreks of hidden pain languish with in a place i cannot bear to inspect, dark thine mists of torment shall remain, if havent i this wills emboldenment to pursue.

loost thine pillars of dispare, miseries entangled daughter plagues the air i breathe, tis sorrowful a keen vision fells to inferior whispers, with right feeling in thine hearts desire thither a proclimation of peace, doth thou feed the mouth of discontented dreams, force so sweet is burden not she makes.

tis beautiful a nightmare brings thee, fearest truth of blacken nights bane, the dragons toungue begiles thee, thou to taketh my souls fire, exhausted to the point of ashen grave, thine lingering heart yerns for release, yet ye so blind deaf and dumb shall remain, fore’er a prisoner of his own boilga.

there needith be a tenth circle, for all unique transsgressions i alone wiltst commit, unto a new deeper crag, surpassing betrayals vicious snare, a place wholly abaddon hither to the breast of the worlds singular axis, passed the upsidedown spaces inverted justice.

a place only reached by thine outstreched arms, solitary in sanguine foundation, a silence of hissing as the serpent writhing in agony, thist maketh known to occupy for eternal an instance, noteth no greater punishment than thou hast the world in total ignorance of thee, and so to ist ye remain abreast of the world.

To Late


What is my simple failure…

In this great escape I feel as if I’m spinning, past present and future all blurry like when first you wake to the mornings dawn. Seems to me forever is the time I spend trying to remember my purpose, or any other fixed point lingering to my subsisting verbiage. To whence doth the belligerent eye yet fear to look at the way made yesterday hence. I seek a furtherance of grandeur in such slender becoming. To true a mind fears nothing but what makes a life deepen to an expounding of meanings. The vectors of which a fascination for life and a proliferation blooming with trials of death and rebirth.

To what odious aspects draw the curtains on the acts of the world, making my sight see the empty spaces to which society lies upon. A husk of culture hollowed out, robbed blind, stolen by the avarice of the masses. To be nothing if not consumable, and so to we must make or own existences cannibalistic. For the way of old has been broken and changed to be something seen as unwanted. But to those of us who clinge to that passing age, only true loneliness and scarcity of self remain for we few that last and slowly give in, wasting are uniqueness, bleeding our ancient reverence. Finally resolving towards increasing entropy, hiding so well the pieces of yourselves the made us. Pretending for a lifetime, trying to feel nothing, cause it hurts to think you lost a self you faintly remember yet know without question it was you that let it all dissolve away.

What’s the time now…

I hate seeing how far passed to late it really is.

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