Peccadillo

Let the captive of a golden confine wing to the impending clandestine and replace his soul of empire with the truth empathy should seize. Create the vision of refinement and splendor in the existence of a stranger, as your phantom shall depart the body into the disaster and anonymity a globe would be waiting for. Merely blubber, a withdrawn slash will abscond your feelings one day. And drops of blood will linger gazing into the concrete appearance of contamination and kindheartedness. You shall role your life’s strings, on the fruitless labor your essence is toiling. And at the end of the commencement, you will plead for paradise to unbolt its arms for your despondent guts waiting in your hands. Steel the fortress the sin was living in, and pretend you cannot heed and perceive, chant for the imps to be awaken as they grip your arms to make you soar to the world of dreadful expertise and the luxurious revolting gold of theirs. Free the pain in your veins and sob so that a cleric can hear. Implore for hell and its evils. Grieves shall never leave your optimism and it shall never take its eyes away. No warfare with the flames since it shall blaze more every single second where you would be dreaming about nightmares and their sins. Clutch the gift of God and Satan and sprint where you can let loose it from your feelings. Wait to the gates open and pierce to the world of famine and shits. Drop the rip and yell when slapped. Crawl the blood on the ground of snakes, and vow since you know death is waiting somewhere.
Lie down, listen to that last heart beat of the ground. Leave your soul to find its way, either to hell or high to pray…