I hear you speak, dear friend of Art.
You cannibal:
You eat my heart.
I know not how to stop you, so...
Deeper into the sand we go.
The night has swallowed whole the day,
In shattered homes and streets we pray,
While stars look down in pain below:
Deeper into the sand we go.
The orange sky falls sharp and sly,
There is no room for our goodbye,
Your secrets are too rich to know,
Deeper into the sand we go.
The words of years rest steady still
Upon my tongue, and rest they will
Until my death. Perhaps you know...
Deeper into the sand I go.
If noise and light could somehow wed
And tell you all I wish I'd said.
In some grand da
I am, simply, lacking.
There is absolute absence
And a void divine.
The
The world is not dead, it is alive with nothing
The
The space between You and I is overwhelming
The
The night closes fast like the eye of the Reaper
The
The truth can kill.
We have
never
ever
felt more alive.
Here we stand, stand
ing on the brink of destiny.
When the drums sound in the distance,
You will know that
It is ending
The kaleidoscopic catastrophe approaches:
La mort de la vérité,
La mort noire de la foi.
The death of all of mankind's dreams
And the dark pretence de moi.
Quand tout se termine et je suis resté moi seul
The Forests of Spite: I by JohnAndrewE, literature
Literature
The Forests of Spite: I
Within the human soul itself there exists a side which harbours the most vile and unmentionable notions and vanities, a side in which hides a realm so dark that we do anything we can to avoid touching it, or even speaking of it aloud. It is the part of us which we cover with make-up and charitable goods, or try and hide with pleasant smiles and light-hearted attitudes in public. If we could, we would prance about our daily lives in complete denial of the reality of such a thing, and it is evident that many of us try.
Many elements name this evil place their home. Ideas and sins like Sloth, Avarice and Pride all lurk here with hollow eyes awa
A question. One raised on the lips
Of a red breath, trapped,
Stuck in a black world and running
Running
Running
She runs. Her being forced forward
In a search for it. The nameless
Prize we long for
Or is it called "freedom" and we solely crave it as we do our very air but like a scream in a whirlwind it is ever a reach away.
She runs.
A tear, liquid torment, a dead heart, a living cadaver...
The smell of a thought.
The sound made when lightning dies.
Left right left right left right
She runs.
Why do the birds cry?
On a stage she falls, dead?
The sky is blue,
She screams for something...
No-one hears. The walls are too lou