Crippled by a force from the pulsing in my veins, I began melding into a fetal bow.
Grinning at the encroached idiocy of a depth dove to tempt mortality.
Chasing an escape from the elites herding, of a repetition known as reality.
Enslaved to a pain out of reach, that we need, or else believe.
On the descent to hell, I’m anxious to embrace a flirting with death.
Yet only thorns remain as the blood-soaked petals fall to a colorless decay.
A nightmare depicted by the purposeless identity, promoting egotistical reprieve.
Only the followers of sin may drink from gardens of legend.