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Blackedpoison Jan 12
in this Morn,
Under this clime,
She found her dark hails,

She tasted its drops and thee can hanging it
on thine blue nose Thro’ this explode.
now, after the mad mass
the Isle became bold , because it scattered the inner gold,
And whose wailing is this?
Who knows!
But,
Before you go,
Cheer their death up
and embrace your pavilions
And fly carefully
Towards the panic .
Blackedpoison Jan 11
next to this real terror
there was a real door
that has an error
with a number four

she tried to hang it on it
and ignore its lore
furthermore,
there was a single sore
within its living bore

it hate to lie
but he liked it before
when he was sure that
it is an angelic core.

he will never have more
of number four
even when its rejection towards her
is so poor
but it still can find the inner shore.
within her gore.
Blackedpoison Jan 11
she reached this ugly place
and found a dark trace
that captured the terror within her face,

the trace became like a hole
within her senses and heart
like a nasty big ball

she ran towards nothing !
like she was in an actual race
because, this dark lie!
put her in a dangerous case
until the trace shone again!
behind her, like a grace
and suddenly, stood up!
in front of her!
like a heaven base

she stoped, and felt sorry
when the evilness within the grace, was too sick
she licked its inner wounds so quick
until it healed, and its health became thick
but all of the sudden,
  she felt the hit!
on her head by a huge stick.

there
within this scary darkness
she left her breath with sadness
and about the evilness
that hiding within the grace soul
you can taste its gladness
after the doomsday
there was an actual poet from the hell,
who always had a knout
to torture their  pale faces
within huge dark fiery cell ,

he ruined and burned their compositions
and made them melting together
again and again  
in a very dark position.

when the god revive them for the sixth time
one of them wailed and said to the poet:
my dear destruction divine
secretly, let the heaven to be mine
and stop giving our thirst
this cursed brine.

the poet responded  and said
yes, i'm the real destruction divine
of course i will not give you a wine
but i will turn off the pine
to keep you close
to your final dark line
He hunted his devastation,
to mar it and make it worse
Like a perfect perturbation,
He cooked his body combination  
With his real obligation.
And he rehearsed
to let his body stalk
with its curses
And fell in love with
the death verses
I will drag your predation  to mine
to mix it and prepare it as a perfect wine.
I will not leave your line
until I make sure that our gloom is fine.
trust this dust-path and this shrine
of our love that will always mar the sunshine.
once upon a dark time
there was a dart
that came and made us apart
with huge different wills of arts
I write
when he likes to be within the plight
I draw
when he mars glow
I swim
when he likes to drowning
near to the brim
of our fancy dark dart.
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