Lemming replicas repeat death as a child, violet and turquoise prisms offer a skeleton to the Sun; the single recognition of a peaceful existence begs away loyalty, what\'s left over as active embodiment, the sediment we call flesh-the words you heard outside, preconceived acquirement of disgust, motion before the collapse of an on-set.
We recollect phrases estimated to protection by their risk, each step is a fragment interlaced with the eternally ephemeral rest, the desire of mist. Inside degradations of praise we consist; time is a frozen pyre, decaying in the orange waterfalls spilling out of my wrist.
I have stopped all motion - the only indication life was an infection to be sought reposes in the symbol of a devil\'s godliness, debris and embers lighting scars fresh on the residue of a widow, weeping;
She is wind when I touch my reflection, where return is nothing but expectation; a different type of nobody.
This is the prescience of irony I can never and only can ever, - escape from;
If I am here, no one else is. Anything that was ever to be known as a were is shot down the streaming riddles of Sunlight - veins of a revelation, reflecting, here - as a child.
He is the prisoner of royalty. I set my death in likeness of stars and awake only to fall in hands craving to bleed in the touch of comprehension, proving the decompression keeping us afloat without distinguishes, adored by that very facet of worthiness enhances everybody in the caricature of my soul; navigated by the repel to the revealing that its essence lays a heart, the will to destiny - the reason why I am born, thus a word. A word without a voice.
Scalping perfection in prosaic torture, I colour the ideal shadow comparing opportunities with ethereal equations replacing existence, the basis of congruency. Innocence is merely the craving for the remedy of forgetfulness, its result is life, an immunity to understand waste.
Sickened by abundance, negating chance by eternalising the message that I am right (i had myself!)I breathe dissolution- I am what has never been thought. Obviously, my throat is slit and gushing, my silence as a child was mutilated horrifically, mostly as I slept, and - inevitably - I must be here for some sort of after glow.
The only way back is through a forward reach inward.