(no subject)
Is.
What a queer arrangement of symbols that create such a pre-cursor for the finite, for there are a finite number of equations that add out to what we create here. Numbers were never my thing, though. Oh ho-ho! Fragment sentence indeed!
This nonsensical babbling turns into something more as the patterns are blurred by the watery eyes of your dead mother’s skull. Can we sing loud and hard and true enough to reach the angels who never existed in the first place; wings clipped and smeared with batter to feed the endless machine of atheistic rule. By no means a defender of Yahweh, but perhaps one who defends the hope that there’s something more to it than this. Is it just some feeble attempt to hold onto the material, or is it some truly spiritually driven wish upon a star. They say that death changes you in such a way that you can never go back to who you were before. The man with the blue eyes paused for a second, a second long enough for my waves to pick up on his cradled memory of the father that left too soon. In that moment I was glad and still am to be in that room of grey.
A memory floats into the room where hope is soon to fly; of a falling star that lit the sky for a few glorious seconds. Wind tossed hair and burning embers perched in a long dead tree, whispering softly to the world that really matters to him. He watches the glazed yellow moon, a planet hovering close by to the side. It reminds him of clichéd movies where the aligning of planets foretells the doom of mankind. Doom for who and salvation for the one’s who truly need it. Where is there Jesus Christ, he screams into the dark. Who will save them from this blackening waste? Were they the true sinners, deserving our wretched race as their scourge, purging all of them before the end? No, it’s something that’s not even possible. More embers burned before his eyes, a brief yelp of flame brought pain and the scene goes back to the sickly yellow that the moon sets for him.
Blending colours creates the stature of the old Gods, and the sacrificed coo in the blood drenched blades of grass.
Slash and gnaw at the still moaning bodies, knowing that in the depths of your reverie you know the truth of this ancient beast, once a brilliant shade of green but now a dull Christmas montage from the spray of crimson in the air. Saddle-less, we move as one. She screams her malcontent and I below another war cry, longing for the moment where all is still and there’s no need for either of us to exist. Do you even know she exists? That she and I make bitter love in the shadows of their graves, whispering softly that it can be kept underneath the skin with the coy ways of carrion worms.
Tell me, lover, is there any need to act out this play anymore? Is this just another fantasy, is this bleeding thing in your gnashing teeth something you truly want, or are the countless other logic based organs the ones you really want.
What a queer arrangement of symbols that create such a pre-cursor for the finite, for there are a finite number of equations that add out to what we create here. Numbers were never my thing, though. Oh ho-ho! Fragment sentence indeed!
This nonsensical babbling turns into something more as the patterns are blurred by the watery eyes of your dead mother’s skull. Can we sing loud and hard and true enough to reach the angels who never existed in the first place; wings clipped and smeared with batter to feed the endless machine of atheistic rule. By no means a defender of Yahweh, but perhaps one who defends the hope that there’s something more to it than this. Is it just some feeble attempt to hold onto the material, or is it some truly spiritually driven wish upon a star. They say that death changes you in such a way that you can never go back to who you were before. The man with the blue eyes paused for a second, a second long enough for my waves to pick up on his cradled memory of the father that left too soon. In that moment I was glad and still am to be in that room of grey.
A memory floats into the room where hope is soon to fly; of a falling star that lit the sky for a few glorious seconds. Wind tossed hair and burning embers perched in a long dead tree, whispering softly to the world that really matters to him. He watches the glazed yellow moon, a planet hovering close by to the side. It reminds him of clichéd movies where the aligning of planets foretells the doom of mankind. Doom for who and salvation for the one’s who truly need it. Where is there Jesus Christ, he screams into the dark. Who will save them from this blackening waste? Were they the true sinners, deserving our wretched race as their scourge, purging all of them before the end? No, it’s something that’s not even possible. More embers burned before his eyes, a brief yelp of flame brought pain and the scene goes back to the sickly yellow that the moon sets for him.
Blending colours creates the stature of the old Gods, and the sacrificed coo in the blood drenched blades of grass.
Slash and gnaw at the still moaning bodies, knowing that in the depths of your reverie you know the truth of this ancient beast, once a brilliant shade of green but now a dull Christmas montage from the spray of crimson in the air. Saddle-less, we move as one. She screams her malcontent and I below another war cry, longing for the moment where all is still and there’s no need for either of us to exist. Do you even know she exists? That she and I make bitter love in the shadows of their graves, whispering softly that it can be kept underneath the skin with the coy ways of carrion worms.
Tell me, lover, is there any need to act out this play anymore? Is this just another fantasy, is this bleeding thing in your gnashing teeth something you truly want, or are the countless other logic based organs the ones you really want.