|
Oceanic centre,
Where the emotion terror lurks collecting names like Death before the throne of unbelievably reckless grace never found but by the dead, A revelation caught in between a perfect algorithm mental future to past chained up no mirror necessary moments watching the picture roll inside the head that bleeds off amidst the distractions of this Sandcastle Earth where both contentment and emptiness wearily deny the causality of honest pigments to unfold from our tongues.
In earnest anticipation of,
|
Miscreant pariah,
Guided by derelict foot prints filled with vermilion fumes inspired by no arms left over save controlled by algorithms of artificial life mechanisms drifting over snow in the shadow of the hive minded satellite a million universes and a nebula's black over green screen reverse matrix encoded text eternally compliant with the dreams of Avarice, Bride of Greed and Debt that is our emotion terror(ist) Monetary Matriarchs.
In earnest anticipation of,
|
A Bitter Remix IV
Emotion invested in terror,
Well ill bitter wind remix of a history on repeat transgression played conquest match chess no stale gangrene amputee mates survive the conflict ending the paradigm transmission heart shift of pull up your britches son... There never was hope.
In earnest anticipation of,
|
The Bloated Hush
World of expression,
Vulgar overly deaf compliant tones of mediocre grey, Moral declining articulate code expansion of delinquent times in a culture of socially acceptable spread of stigma pathogens, Analysis official opening grunt statement met report associates strength with the open air spread of a well structured phrase whose tendency predicates monosyllables' macho loquacity verdict of odd virility.
Punch half drunk on whispered babble, delinquent sneers and quasi enunciated inane phenomenon of guiltless weak hearted conversation where sleeves will only ever be convinced by a cocky aggressive side walk group hive minded stance consumed by the false subject matter of silence where arrogance breeds an apathy amidst lust so deep its vile vein channels are never sated even as the culprit of a blackout hate second language glare in the stillness towards a 'lovers' derelict venomous jack frost's endlessly spilling fourth onyx rime like oil glazed over eyes of vermilion blood tones of a death match between loyalty and pride where chivalry never wins has caused the blackout lid no surgery of make up could cover the grievous malignant falling down victim stairs blaming herself for the bruises to the pigs at her doorstep where she lay dying just hours before...
Worst compliance altercation is a group infested hives willing consciousness past blue pill awakening group in a line up mentality of never lift a finger to rescue the hope in a split no second life dedicated to every chance at sedation.
Arguing voices mingle between angelic witnesses hovering unseen in a twilight realm of obscenely jested psalms as they bid a moment before the gates to a golden thrown wherein sits the shadow of man so that they may make a a vow of reverent silent decapitation of their tongues to speak of the vile nature of inhumanity on Sandcastle Earth as it falls they prayer to the shade of Death upon the dais who'll never welcome them back folding themselves inside charred wings into the ochre flames of heaven, A wish to opt the insult of humanity shouting in a no arms left resolution of greed's indigenous nurtured voice of violence and the cosmic deaf growl inheritance code of every tone must be kept chained in discourse a captive of silence...
We speak only on behalf of Avarice and the selfish carpe diem manifesto of greed... What nebula of this sad universe has the vigilance of morality sanctioned itself off our planet to? Leaving black mumble bitten apex doctrine clouds lingering behind the ventriloquist decrepit voice moping inside our heads as if the speakers of our hearts reside trapped within a shelter we're all willing to watch shatter.
Will the demise of heroic moments lived by choice of will be overthrown by the determination of deviant leagues of blind tongue grouped up side line existing violent speech seething filled hive mentally ill minded rarely but for their own gratification or manipulation be gentle men, The great forked tongue malignant malfunction of our time, We're oft to silent in dark times, too afraid to speak in a closed parselmouth crime unsolved case of weakness surfacing on the tragic predatory snake like epidermis of our colour changing skin.
In earnest anticipation of,
|
An Unopened Letter to Christmas I...
When Shadows,
Fall upon the threshold as the strangely dim twilight appears to alter time, slowing amidst recognition of beauty trapped in the moment, smile and know for certain that the blanket of life’s misalignment is not misfortune, but a random no second happens again so grasp it by the horns and wrestle that bull of a demon with a vermilion red flag cloaked about your neck! Own every tick of the changing clock, not for carpe diem, but for the survival of a smile…
In earnest anticipation of,
|
A Bitter Remix V
Isolation is blind,
All stop reverse lethargic thrusters before the arbiter of hope as it encircled the dais of emotion aegis never shielded the bloated hushed belly of swollen lies within the dark grey shadow of the never evaporating gunmetal turmoil clouds lingering above the heart of my throne as it travels stagnantly caught in apathy's vapid confinement of one in a world where carpe diem monster thoughts leave you abused and alone...
In earnest anticipation of,
|
767 Porn Handed I
White hate self blame tide Pulse of cumming condemless Hand manifesto job of spilling gossip Inaudible sigh of relief against inner calm Sexually incapacitated back seat passenger Partner exempt from loyalty & passion Nervous conscious sedation twitch Misdirected finish line guidance Singularity clenched sex fist Quickly diminishing mood Behind her back crime Admit to enjoying it No lotion fault Doggy style Digital Sex
Emotion terror Uncontested bed isolation Husband's admiring online sex positions Graphics transmitting the disloyalty disease Heart too comfortable in curiosity's detachment Internet sexuality hide your history explorer Star ornament for a groom's lost mind Wife's bleeding under hood orbit Adore the nebula digital poses Inner eye camera roll Illustrations of lust
Grew up behind Sexually misguided lines Where Maureen's very bones Were held in solitary confinement Paralysed in contempt before parents Who wanted a hood ornament boy Transgender possibility daughter Imprisoned by false gods Shadows in the mirror Smoke on suit parade Wishing for change Praying on fate
A would be boy... Girl's life wished unmade Genetic single x desired apparition Double chromosome type birth disorder Unwanted defective malignant daughter First heroic male born an opposite Sexual organ bleeding villain Teenage daughter suicide Tomb of a prayer Parent's desire Every night
Break of Solutionless Applause Never Heard
No found out overly rehearsed sexually never abated lust disloyalty of a husband could ever reconcile the equation the bullies sticks thrown as verbal stones that reprised her in a daily victim's roll of a personality trapped in a holocaust over active dynamite lit pyre of a smoke stack circus holocaust quickly depriving the frame of carbohydrates smashing them in the manipulation of a suggested broken metabolism of multiple tongue conversations hallway piece.
Next home no shelter Husband ring managed cell An alter of shame's loyal vows Hand of slavery not disappointment Contract rebuttal refer back to god Scripture abuse abandoned wife Disgraced inner being content Loveless again in appearance Digitally isolated pleasure Christ upheld rings Lord of misuse
A would be wife never held his gaze No anorexic sideways turn disappearance Paper contract of love's grace disapproved mother Appearance of her next generation's definition of beauty Star ornament of her children's eyes held her captive No time ticking bombs scars within the hand full Five digits painted with honesty's graphic Contortionist's painful smile alignment Isolated misconduct heart algorithm Content in evil obedience Living for descendants Chivalrous children Her beloved...
|
A Bitter Remix XI
Artistic,
Prosthetic creative shadow protruding from a phantom numb limb, Culture heart shocked in a post compassion social declaration of a counter stigma attack of residual apathy on grey pastel cloud canvas god drawn rain on the conscious sedation parade of derelict consciousness are held willingly ransom from their own minds kept atop emotion terror's bay where civilisation hides a terminal malignant lethargy tumour behind both eyes more than half accepting the cost blind.
In earnest anticipation of,
|
A Bitter Remix XII
Six,
Vacant flag declaration kissing soldiers halt the heart in a moment of emotion terror witless as stone cast wonders they stand ill in silent on a foreign conflict death mine land trap watching children roaming fields of red culture soccer clash with foot to ball,becoming amputees to parents as they saw futures away without chloroform.
In earnest anticipation of,
|
A Poetic New Years Social Prose Commentary
2014 New Year's Plague: A Sequence of Poetry
Glittering edge of star dust sand eclipse storm paper born on new holocaust over every underground well source of media day parading truth whilst the propaganda main ocean tide pedestal view regresses backwards in history on Avarice's calendar unique anorexic thin band repeat day by toxic sea no inhuman hand convicted for our world's last phantom appendage journal entry.
This is the social stigma scape of our sandcastle earth in decay, Mute eyes braille read from deaf lips as blind ears ear of how the world harbinger tallies lives over tunnel no vision board face nameless white cross up opposition side of unreversible down as a dementia no one ever cared ward patience violated himself with violent fist upon self epidermis lavender to vermilion weather into six inch graves pretending to be false half open try harder gates of heaven again...
II
Disarmed new heroic years grotesque birth of the harbinger one charred black winged angel of the future's atonement method afforded Avarice amidst her greedy no fingers left praise of hell freezing over all hearts on earth, Stone labyrinth of redemption all worship to apathy sung from the drones of heaven!
Between phantom numb limb lines read of inhumanity's damage self caused ever corner scattered ochre born fire ashes of the flames rime froze as the choir sang of aspiration in the highest degree unto pain and all the woes of wasted blinks stolen by sleep the brother of Death, Apollion's ember breathing down your throat at the end of time, As your vacant lungs fill pretend your motives weren't part of the crime!
Increase your life as the qualms of grace pass their judgement from one to the last defiant albeit lonely other!
Above is the tale of Carpe Diem and all the gluttony surveillance delirium lost cause after monetary all mechanism believe they are higher cause is wealth above...
How lost...
III
Arms from a conflict amputated left explosion all exploited over by war adopted by the phantom personality doppelgängers known sand castle earth over as poor, Cost of the final act beyond a mourning foul wake up fire distress breath of inhumane regret gulp of acid felt in the final moment.
IV
Knocked the close hair decorative pin corner out as the triad of a fist fortified with force confided in the chin poster up angle of an upper jagged little square shaped heart pill held ransom in a circle ring box thrusting jabs of angst mimicked in mumbled quasi torn mute lip expressions of hate against any left twitching their bodies over one batch of floor unsolved riddle opponents stacked ceiling litter secondary box high before the dread beta install equation naught that ended every 1. beyond o version.
V Hand backed mountainside of a cliff falling onyx to amethyst stairs face down beyond an unheavenly malignant saving graceless mortal empire of the colourless puppet heart crumbles as the anorexic tolls her saviour's naked thorn murder overhead crown upheld dying form as the mirror blows smoke in the plague winds of glittery paper false testimony emotion terror messages against the hope of fate captured in the throws of addiction beguiled in regret.
In earnest anticipation of,
|
2014 New Years Nerd Infest: Plague
Fortress debt enthroned tomb of enchanted fragments of hurricane Smaug broke hope down before the dais of Sith Onyxia's foul breath forecasted a rain of Pip the dragon fire.
Destiny Link's fairy fire crystal orb shooting sword parried the Orchid Lightsabre of agent Samuel Fury as the tri-force cheat inherited code melted away green over black screen text of the matrix as Neo and Cloud called in the 47 Ronin to join the strife against the apprentices was dark lord Sephiroth.
Bastion spoke the never endng's name when Archimonde retaliated upon Kil'jaeden before the oblivion warlock's crimson blood tap throne once violated by the disease of hope as the children of a warcraft allied earth lay siege to the back of the defiler's lost chaotic pet Death-X Wing, the final boss of a Star that never less than 1/3 an algorithm plausible story Lucas unboarded himself to recast the dye that should have been left a trilogy...!
Volume contagion notch off throbbing aspirations of mute eardrums limits as the consciousness drones the black Mordor speech of gunmetal post angst hard nerdcore music before the internal witness desiring all awareness fall asleep, Back hypothetically forever into the blue tattoo polygon shaped heart pill beyond digital black unreadable transcripts of ancient ocean imperial jade green texts never messaged over obsidian jet onyx shade royal egg navy shelled blue screen error affliction impression state of the in achievable second no luck afforded chance at a resurrection!
In earnest anticipation of,
|
A Bitter Remix XIII
Hands,
Bleed vermilion black shades of a 99% sandcastle earth apocalypse, a handy mankind crafted Armageddon enjoyed as inhumanity crumbled in a hive group socially committed stigma regime of conscious willing mentality blind ill bitten wasp under epidermis sedation, sit back and watch the globe fall... Fingers are only raised now for fracking (Alternative Curse Word).
In earnest anticipation of,
|
Hive Minded XxxX
Hell,
Had no fury in a frozen black pit of anarchy until God unleashed angels guised as demons, all art is atonement stored behind the closed 'stay out' hand signed gates of an indecisive heaven filled with gods invoked before mirrors that paper rock scissor kick kneel in worship their own shadows.
In earnest anticipation of,
|
Hive Minded XxxX I
Take notice,
Journal falsified self protest entry of the derelict half evaporated into ethereal constant declaration of an expired conflict no arms left but phantom engaging limbs gone numb in a rogue exposure to plastic intentions of avarice's greed declaration of a no moral conviction decrepit misery compass signalling the ochre pyres of profit off in the distance where Sandcastle Earth lies in ruins.
In earnest anticipation of,
|
A Bitter Remix XIV
Abstract walls,
Confined in a stab algorithm heart shaped sleeve tattoo black consciousness box wound unfortunate alignment of blind voluntary acceptance of the witch's programmed controlled hypnotics voice mechanically droning hatred in a prejudicial stigma of contempt over other's lives, This is sand castle earth's dark realm crystal of emotion terror.
In earnest anticipation of,
|
No one has written,
Maybe the standard for 'the first submission' is very high and as of yet to be anywhere near met via said works of the citizens of the Witness Guardian. I know not, though that is my only guess.
So what to write...? Certainly nearly anyone who exists has a story to tell that might be found worthy of being broadcast under the witness guardian protection digital media program of this here little website, but what shall this tale stagnantly tell? Possibly it is not derelict, as an ancient nothing but rusted out holds long looted by pirates about to run aground on a shoreline where no tourists, nor natives, have ever dwelt. It shall be an odyssey of a grand undiluted saga of win! Yes, win, for all your basis are belong to us.
How bout a telling of an everlong saga of nearly all starving to not so struggling artists, the woeful longsuffering life of perseverance despite... Well, hereafter you shall have it.
Nearly all journeys,
Into the creative side of writing are uniquely besieged by dark tides. Some adventures are riddled with writer's block which can send your dreams down a porcelain throne if you're not diligent to continue writing; this is also true of those who finish a first or third draft of a work they deem 'magnificent' or 'a game changer in their creative realm' and thus give up their dedication to their craft in order to persuade others to produce or sponsor their project.
There are countless instances of artists being plagued by external avenues of time theft. Whether that be f(r)iend or arch nemesis if your ever presence fails and you delay ever long, there may come a time when you walk back to the door of your dreams... You find it locked, thus you begin knocking, no one responds. Therein is silence, the pattern of creative beauty is no longer at home in any landscape of your mind.
The achievement at the quest's end, to make merely enough to continue writing, unhindered. Mine began with an accident, well two to be exact. The first was that of my body being damaged beyond diagnosis. I was twenty three years old when, at work, a fork lift came round the bend of pallets. In a fright the driver lurched and I was struck by the tusks and sent falling into said stacks of pallets. All would have been well if the young lad had merely looked ahead, as I did, slowing in the tight bend.
No diagnostic tool, from bone to cat of scans, conjured results of my injury and for nearly a year I was overcome with pain and the mental haze of pain killers. Finally I simply began stretching and holding yoga poses at home from a book I got second hand at a charity shop.
Out of money and no where to live, having no f(r)iends from a bullied lonely youth and subsequent useless young adulthood I began to write. Words streamed out of me as poetically infused prose journal entries. What I read was imaginative empathy trapped in the horrors of the rage inside. At the hand of chance's fate I ended up across the country working for a massive corporation and quickly began moving up the ladder, though not so swiftly of pay grade and the writing all but came to a screeching halt.
Then the second accident happened, I believed a lie. A creature unimaginable floated by as butterfly, beauty on one side but decrepit on the other. Sadly everyone that knew her believed she was at very least, normal, thus so did I. In the presence of a therapist/counsellor years down the road I heard her say 'I hid things from him and lived that way because I never trusted him.'
What I had to offer, she wanted, the comfortable life of a sedated pacifist. But my creative rage instilled words would not be quelled by the offer of sex; after all I had barely touched her realized her deviant ploy the day after she moved in and we weren't physical before that... Alas for the deadly mask of lies that came off immediately in betrayal. The line was clear 'If you weren't even interesting in meeting my needs, so I had someone else do it.'
Now I write endlessly, after recognition and a lengthy recovery of multiple mental illnesses rebuilding my body from injury and the plague of dead confidence, deadly self loathing esteem and an eating disorder, the too thin of shell kind, I am now nearly 'normal.' Prescription's Decline
Vivid delirium nonsense Conquest of a protagonist Salient infantry private in uniform Regular patient of the bomb shelter Cold sirens dilute all daylight Distress method of destiny Integrate lucid anomalies Gas ruined breathing Lobotomy's silence Failure of strategy Mend in death
What is this malarky, stop the swelling vermilion red's kindred tide of anti-sedation upon the shores of consciousness! We are comfortable here, but alas the poem goes on... Medication on notice Paranoia attention decline Deficit lost profit disorder Monetary guilt trip up in arms Toxins under forced recovery sheets Prevail against peaceful sleep Sinking in a red tide of sweat Ocean of beads skin fallen Pills bleeding prescription Sedated in overdose Pills will prevail...
The first half a poem, one of many thousands.
At least I'm stable and carry only the baggage that helps mend others through spoken word, lyrics, podcasts and prose poetry. I live to write and write to die, empty. In hopes that the journeys I craft will help others in some way. Through social issues read from various online news sources to the hearing of a tragic story first hand, I write about what seems to matter; equality, domestic violence, mental illness, prejudice, injustice, love, mother earth, father time and artificial intelligence, a cyborg holding the last human's hand in the end.
For one it might be realizing and confronting a grievous wound or explicit deep scar trauma. For others it might be witnessing in their minds the sorrows of others, unable to change the node on the dial or alter the channel to escape the imaginary landscape adventure.
Whether it's being able to identify with others in a new and beautiful, empathetic to non pacifist way after being stolen away on a journey through tragedy, loss or mourning or the realization that they are or have indeed suffered and confront that reality, possibly for the first time... Hope is the prescribed outcome, that is my only hope.
Bipolar Beauty
Paralysed bipolar look up scene Beauty trapped in fire infused sand Mirror amplifies the psychosis Derangement not by choice Furniture inside deforms Despite the prescription Still hallucinating
Abnormal scientific referral Accepted terms for testing Abrasive codex of dignity Accidental manic prey
Bipolar schizophrenic shallow breathing Darkness of the mind depressive Sworn to psychosis secrets Trapped in her own head Yet she is defined... By illness instead of beauty
Where does your mending begin? On a train home from work after Baring Witness to an audacious conversation between two gossiping quacks? In a school room after taking in the impact of a lesson spoken by some random workshop poet scheduled in for the day? After some traumatic misery signal that was the sign you prayed or hoped for that would spark you to change... But sadly you didn't until it was too late?
There is no such thing as writer's block, there is just being stuck. Persevere, write on and create despite the lack of inspiration, you'll never know what you might craft if you believe you're stuck and don't make a move forward in your creative endeavours.
There is no such thing as being tone deaf, when your mother calls you over the phone, you know who it is... You can instantly tell by her tone whether or not she is happy, upset, sad or frustrated. Slowly apply this to your own voice and you too can learn to sing in beautiful tones of melody.
The point is, don't stop creating before you've started just because someone informed you or some media state of ill propaganda fed to you throughout you life instilled a belief that 'you cannot... because.' Unlearn such non-sense and begin mending, healing, scoping out your own wounds to scar them over, cauterize them and slowly heal.
We can never be perfect for ourselves or our partners, but we can be complete in our selves. They can help the mending process, but only we can find contentment in who we exist as, projecting the ball and not always healthy chains of our past with us as we travel towards the escapees of conscience, acceptance and compassion.
I leave you with a poem written while witnessing, which seems appropriate given the content herein is written for a guardian proposing that life's witnesses view, digest and reassemble to share a tale with would be clicky fingered viewers.
Baring Witness
Crows gossip beside me, murder stains their beaks, vermilion scales of painted red dance like pawns cursing a game they never meant to play, sinisterly calm in year long trenches of venomous speech, paper wire tapping idle of response unstable personalities bounding ridicule against f(r)iends through parasitic liquid revenge sworn unto death seething from the mouth of hate...
In earnest anticipation of,
|
Bitter Remix XV (Lost Girl I)
Paranoid,
Internal paranoia auditorium for multiple schizophrenic selves adopted the triforce stance of saving every moment's awareness as a harbourous sand castle safe emotion terror haven for the half conscious broken memorandum downed the clause lost witness who set themselves before the dais of the mirror's strangely dim self projection analysed forever in a second no less than oblivion's stolen shelves of memories attempting to bare testimony of past convictions to the host!
Whose bystander ghost effect has token caused 99.9% lingering damage to the tesseract of her heart's cubic 8 bit symphony confinement that transmits an isolating message of dire abstract wilted reliance on lucid day twilight lidless inner eye dreams bound by chains of fire infuse stained mirror sand that is the swollen belly of ritual white eye tumour blindness unwilling to distil the over time spent under the obsidian charred wings of her guardian bruised angel who fell down and abused out from heaven's stairs off the biblical avenue of achievement misery beheld upon the restless happily overture bent in dreams backwards over pages of the last surviving magazine built by the internal images of masculinity's stress the sexual relationship via tension whilst in delusions he finishes in another air brushed woman whose name was mother that strived to be the arbiter of joy trapped in algorithms of arms under plagued holy skin ground that evaporates water of joy amidst the everlasting anchorage of regret where dread flag naught ships drown in illusionary images of worry's lost phantom causality limb of hope...
In earnest anticipation of,
|
Alpha Test Post by Spoken Word University
Good day,
I'm unprepared to be of any potentially valid use, at least that's the common position for most witnesses whose eyes half open, the lidless inner observer surely is entirely asleep save for moments of deepest shame or that of momentarily inspired fear, that peer through the black, no future, sheep discoloured with loneliness dust window upon an artist left over long to his endeavours without a kind word from those who 'supposed love him.'
Just like most people, I too grew up with Lego in my hands, crafting minute trinkets from pre-made instructions from the box. The problem is that every child that opened that same set of Lego that jingle jangled ever so slightly as they shook it on Christmas morning, was about to build the same thing.
The instructions weren't for creativity, they were for process, to help us with the transition from building from pages at home to accepting information preached to us in schools where we're taught to follow schedules that would need to submit our whole lives to in order to achieve some measure of 'security and comfort.'
Somewhere along the matrix green over black screen text of Lego creation by due process a strangely dim creativity had been ever so slowly spawning in the near twilight dark of the right hemisphere of my brain. I began creating Star Wars space dread space naught flag ships, the X-Wing to the Millennium Falcon, I even took on larger projects like a Star Destroyer (Though it ended up half blue and grey, I ran out of the grey blocks... *Sadface*), from there I moved on to Blizzard Entertainments hideous malignant deformed monstrosities that threatened to end the existence of humanity that were the creatures of Star Craft.
Like most people from early Generation - Y, whose parents claimed to be hippies but were so strict you felt relief when heading to the next village over to go to uni, I was told to put down the Lego, set aside my dreams and grow up. Stop trying to be what you had always wanted to be and start achieving success in the landscape your grades, tests, assessments and teacher comments had laid out for you.
Go to uni, 'ace it,' then get a job and climb the clearly undefined, yet structured, ladder of life's rungs until such prestige or, and more commonly I might add, security in comfort is found. Then, maybe, just maybe the black letter's spot of a stain handed down to your creative wolf in sheep's clothing from the captain of your ship called home, might accept you again; but only if you're successful enough to have achieved security and comfort.
The artism, delirious mental disease that once threatened to end your career before it began has thusly been thwarted. Sad is the state of Sandcastle Earth, yet the passion to cultivate and execute our various artistic endeavours now thrives in our veins. We have procured our will for dreams, instead of achievements in the social, no one noticed, stigma that is was and always has been, a silent resurrection of bushido lost in our society today, a class system of tiers wherein rains accomplishment, monetary security and social success. So pick back up your Lego dream blocks, it is time to solve the equations surrendered from your dreams to give attention to the social puzzle. However slowly it comes together for the realization of your creative idea, that may have simply started as a fragment of a thought, begin to expand on that origin source concept. Eventually the Alpha program of your creative interpretation will begin to manifest itself and a beta test will begin, the riddle can only say as such for so long before the convictions of your dreams become reality, however small.
In earnest anticipation of,
|
Hive Minded XxxX II
Back lit spook,
Acrylic ghost canvass phantom paper sketch hand drawn outline pain deterred the brush fire black strokes of fate from painting the white never drawn in lines blurred wreckage of a million unspoken words before the throne of every nuclear winter's born half vanquished by geostigma the radiation paralysis of a vampire's estranged blood violently boiling amidst irrelevant cells making every second life count as a chance to clot the waning light between worlds before the orbital plateau drop of a land vaporization fate engine entitled Goliath the last Mine set its will upon the atmosphere to eclipse all breath from the children of men, So it was in the end.
When the last oil stained tear of the androids gave way their undertones of regret to the illusion of a lonely existence within the painted world of Sandcastle Universe where she The Only A.I finished the final words of the last journal entry after the curtains of hell's fire awoke the terminal brimstone of crossing the universe stars to accomplish the majestic act brought upon the wellspring of everything that ever existed by the red manifesto of hate and greed over love's accepting destiny of man's press every button at your wilting finger skeletal tips to eradicate the invisible enemy that never was...
In earnest anticipation of,
|
Hive Mind XxxX III
Crusades at twilight,
Dread never spoke naught but a lie over a flag sunken battle conflict ghost phantom amputated heart's breath limb beyond the tragic hidden metaphor of forever wrapped in a moment drowning victim once called soldier who met his doom in the astral burial ocean grounds under Orion.
In earnest anticipation of,
|
|
|
|