Claim me to be the leaves on your hands, to understand the rise and fall of all these things that I’m beginning to bring to my senses.
Life and death has no resurrect except the expectation of the liberation of power.
I'll bite my tongue and chew my cheek to prolong your suffering to the extent of its peak and then wash the soil from your eyes and despise every word you speak.
Is this evil or is this a lesson to profess and confess that I'm no guide to the afterlife, but within a lie there’s a reason to lead on such a story for glory and passion.
There is no leader to the life you have birthed; within your mind, unwind your tangled aura and flourish the furnished tables from which you stand up and take no more.
They will provide you a life of strife like delicate paper weights that float on to the late evenings of setting traits and phases.
Outlook this horizon, there’s more to become, for the dawn speaks like the young and I am the dusk you have been growing lust to lavish in my sweet dark musk.
Yet you empower yourself with their cult, and they carve your eyes out and feast on your flesh.
Where is your self respect?
Where can you carry yourself when they're on your back?
You foolish b*stard!
Have you forgotten to stand your ground? !
Thrown to the dogs, you struggle to balance your head above the mud.
Purge out your intestines; now that’s a mighty meal!
I believe we have a faithful man, consumed in soiled rivers and amputated mercy with a story of your righteousness.
But I've got a nice glass of liquor to salt your wounds; I hope you suffer this dreadful lie.