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wHat beckons is the silent Kingdom a sanctum holy devoid. whose apt walls are tawny bricks of quiet. the patrons clamor somnambulant. and heaps of proffered tongues litter the illucid broken halls. the forgetful powder piles neatly limbs of gray on and about and the pews drink the sun or the sky is a plait of onyx feathers. an arrhythmia of breathes struggle daft lungs. the stillness beats. bleating nothing lambs flocked in stupid silver. the mouths are all corded sinew bound. epitaphs scrawled untidy letters drench cheeks apathetic. a corpse of hollow resonance. step and stone; cadaverous hues, sallow indolent light on every stanchion. in the cathedral, cloistered, is a stiff artery. a heart stagnant veins. a king whose crown is ash, a face whose efforts are unfleshed. no skin has purchase. nor sight. empty hood scythe loaded dreams the morphea plated scalp. a soft vesical limpid chromatic fingernails scrabble festering nodes. he is waiting in the comfort of his filth lithe carpals flexing summons to his cloak the candles are making naked lips kissing darkness; lovers uncut bound fornicating. i sitting sat saturated the valley fluxes. and a tissue of blue decrepit night dusting the sin of noise. a naked wind so says he
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Aug 4, 2010
Aug 4, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC
wHat beckons
wHat beckons is the silent Kingdom a sanctum holy devoid. whose apt walls are tawny bricks of quiet. the patrons clamor somnambulant. and heaps of proffered tongues litter the illucid broken halls. the forgetful powder piles neatly limbs of gray on and about and the pews drink the sun or the sky is a plait of onyx feathers. an arrhythmia of breathes struggle daft lungs. the stillness beats. bleating nothing lambs flocked in stupid silver. the mouths are all corded sinew bound. epitaphs scrawled untidy letters drench cheeks apathetic. a corpse of hollow resonance. step and stone; cadaverous hues, sallow indolent light on every stanchion. in the cathedral, cloistered, is a stiff artery. a heart stagnant veins. a king whose crown is ash, a face whose efforts are unfleshed. no skin has purchase. nor sight. empty hood scythe loaded dreams the morphea plated scalp. a soft vesical limpid chromatic fingernails scrabble festering nodes. he is waiting in the comfort of his filth lithe carpals flexing summons to his cloak the candles are making naked lips kissing darkness; lovers uncut bound fornicating. i sitting sat saturated the valley fluxes. and a tissue of blue decrepit night dusting the sin of noise. a naked wind so says he
patrick-wakefield-1
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Aug 4, 2010
Aug 4, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC
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