Paradise
is a road
We make of it.

No Destinations without the Journey.
No Salvation without the mourning.

How hell is paved
Hail Captalism!

We’re made of it...
They can smell it.

Fear and gluttonous Greed
The scent of themselves disposed

But a hint of sweet
Agony, aftermaths of painful

The pallid orchid's Petrichor
Soaked scent of wild rain.

Wet paint.
Sweat. Taint.