You too shall fall to momentum’s death, upon the avenue of choice, within the season of reason. trudge you will, deep into the caverns of aloneness, to wreathe a flame voicing the reflections of your secret justifications for the deaths you have caused to all your ideas. And silently, within your shadow, they will wane and fall, crumbling from the pedestals of their existences. Your knees will become engraved by the fingerprints of your dead concepts, wishes and dreams, filled with the grime of sin’s arrogance, its infectious disease clamoring dread upon nimbus-drum. Disregard you will, the blood that seeps from the pores of your scalp, for a thousand knives have climbed your spine at the mentioning of I. Though, why pretend that the misery that befalls your eyes and weighs upon your chest, impaling your lungs and wreathing your spine in demise does not exist? This callousness, this mindless persecution of one’s heart — how can this promise contentment, happiness? Laugh can one only do in the hilarity of your escape, for He of serpentine villainy has beset your wrists. And my, does it feel odd to breath and voice recollect.
Malevolence, how I lament the coming of your age, yet again.
You will not hold me, embrace nor caress me. There is no room for You.
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