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It is afraid. The deathly silence of a pearl drop in all its stillness. It has grown fearful. The requiem of my memories, the struggle within the eternal present, steered beyond a mask of crawling shadows creeping into the steeled ribs of my unbridled waters. You fed my soul. You graced my portrait. You exalted my being. Oh why in this chasm of chaos, I descant under your raincloud, made to swivel under the long arms of your comforting deluge. No, it is too painful to hear. The call of the pensive, an adulterated and terrible shelter, turned from sanctuary to subterfuge. My ears cry at the roar of the ocean, for all it hears is sorrow. But sorrow is beautiful, and I crush my body in outlandish whim, to inch forward afore the clarion calls of my rebellious organs, to cleave my soul into a paroxysm of torture, as I sunder my peeling lips with one last whisper, the remnants of my entrails writhing against the tides opposing them, in a handsome bow of eventual defeat to design. The allure of mankind, the nature that defies grace, the light that speeds magnificently above the skies, burning the watery tears of its lustful victim’s eyes. A most charming sight.
The Opening Line
A Divided Self
What could possibly go wrong in a seemingly perfect society? Illusions abound to protect the soul, and mask the pathways around your daily stroll. A mind which seeks to accept the crime, and fill the carriage with an imagined peace, only to be deterred by the heart who yearns to destroy the grime, and rip the body in grim decease.