Withering, withering, withering down.
A spiral of emptiness and weakness in my own heart.
A sickly form of hate.
A frail figure of shadows and misery and memorie.
O! and what is the field of golden corn compared to the bruise on your throat.
Choked by the ******* of godliness, when she is called life///when she is called death.
Forced to spit out your last drop of blood, through your pharynx///through your eyes.
Sexually with the knife in hand. Like stone to butter, stabbing within the heart of the devil. Like the beast with three *****, who carries the devil in his sinful testicles...you stab stab stab at the flesh of your own chest.
No hair after the fire, no blood after the lust.
The sexuality which assaults YOUR OWN SANITY. It becomes you.
Withering and withering within the HELL of your own spiral.
O! and when are you to become the devil within the sac of the beast?
To be born and reborn again within the light of the sun.
Burning away in a pool of blood that you craved forever.
Burning back together in a pool of ***** that you craved forever.
O! and who are you when you are left naked and alone by your own hand in a pool of hate that you craved forever, I asked myself.
