AskScourgeAndAshfur

Strangling myself with this silence, I am one rung closer– with every little death descending deeper into Gehenna's bowels, brandishing a soul through drawn eyes and watching it all burn. A plea for deliverance stretches thin over this thrust my masochist thirst insists. If asphyxia is Heaven, my throat is the horizon. You can't sever midnight sky from sea, the black from the blue. Rolling back on my spine serpentine grande, I at last experience revelation. To dream in grayscale and melancholy is to never suffer disappointment at the hands of Life's disastrous folly. I feast upon the fruit of despair– its