The screech of a makeshift roof
A faint echo of my heart as proof.
Serves to dignify my life,
The fruit I've grown should have been ripe.
Inching closer to madness,
Within the pit I've now fallen, so careless.
A gray postule pulsates on my nerves, oozing pus.
The infinite subconscious maw is consuming us.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 4:31 PM UTC
The screech of a makeshift roof
A faint echo of my heart as proof.
Serves to dignify my life,
The fruit I've grown should have been ripe.
Inching closer to madness,
Within the pit I've now fallen, so careless.
A gray postule pulsates on my nerves, oozing pus.
The infinite subconscious maw is consuming us.
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