Their Terror

“I felt the sorrow of the christened soul
The child borne to the apathetic angel
you cannot hide from the sorrow you”ve fought to drown out.

I’ve been to hell
I loved the bliss
I’ve screamed alongside souls
with un-letted grief.

You tell me you want my death
You slice the veins and hang the noose
to persecute my sacrament and live the days of the last bereft”

Our Terror

“I vowed vengeance on my last touch
To exact the tiresome pyres of infinitum sight”

The autonomous churning of days to weeks and months to years grinds our minds into snapshot theories of who we used to be and who we want to be, and most importantly - who we think we are. Pain is inevitable, part of the human experience is taking portions of emotions and trying them on to fit a lifestyle, to fit a particular need. We fall to our knees at overwhelming stimulus, the point being that our overdrive for sensation can sometimes become destructive and in the Roman way: Nothing in excess, yet we consume vicariously everyday.

Our craven morals in the spectre of graven ideals make us the animals we are, no one is excluded and not a soul reedemed. We repress and we consume to rebuild ourselves, we are not free and there is no pennance when salvation becomes the persecution of a man dying for our sins and especially not when I owe a tithe for his sacrifice. Sacrilege is so passe, don’t pull the wool over the eyes of an already blind world. Power and inner strength is gained from what we make of our downfalls and errors, whether we decide to press on or die.

Realize your grave is an ending point and not a seed for another life.