|
Shorn of apocryphal pride, the locks falls predicting strife. |
|
Cranium exposed, denial of aesthetic. |
|
Push it a little farther. |
|
All of this burnt to ashes, all of this torn to rags. |
|
I don't know what the fuck have |
|
I become? |
|
Synapses snapping mortality decimated. |
|
Breakdown whiskey shifts hate into overdrive. |
|
Realizing it's murder of the self so clean. |
|
Hand reaches out desecrates impunity. |
|
Ripping away foundation's identity replacing with shame. |
|
Transgression mythologized, indiscretions immortalized. |
|
Anger inflamed with dry rot, pushing towards severance. |
|
What a bloody mess. |
|
Visiting dark sites unknown, grief lands like a ton of bricks. |
|
All of this burnt to ashes, all of this torn to rags. |
