Rose Clouds Of Depression
"I seldom think, it's bad for me."
Here rests the suffocating yield which grew from the palm of the outlaw. Yours truly must deliver the embryo of the departed to aid the coaxed who assembles in gloom and envelopes the cosmos in the virtue of one’s zest, as the murky rotunda resembling separated hamlets shapes what nay could be and nothing do, while the squirm after the agitation represented by the rare shapes which neither was nor came to be, agonized except the anxiety of the exclusive, which neither gazed nor distinguished that which might be so. Through the charcoal saliva where illumination sets, bewitched by the hour, the harvest must mature while the tenebrosity belonging to those blissful and torn unfolds the epiphany of the cataclysmic malleableness of the adobe. The chimera of the chasm similar to needles of vicious vine that must spike inward a cranium and inflate the soul further than no humanoid can tackle, though if it rots underneath the soil, elevated on leafy meadows, in oceanic endlessness, through perfect breeze, everything must appear; the vision, the carousal, through wisdom the throttled fallout – while the grip of the trespasser must triumph, because penumbra contains no damnation, nor in crumbs which the scintillation of the doomed mustn’t efface. Through the growth, through shades one’s allure of tenderness which blooms shadowy roses, which fangs must gorge though nurse the courier of the transience of an era. These withering bodies must soundlessly apprehend heart through annihilation, because that which rots must neither be abandoned nor avoid revitalization to wander the orb in the relief of inanity. Thus must a blaze be aware of your name, while in the affection of the suffocating yield, this cimmerian combustion must amass the entirety of yours truly in the debris.