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NOTE: Hop will add more and more as Hop comes up with ideas.
The flames of the eternal are an autumn yet unleashed
born in an envelope of darkness combine with the milk that is the sky's Reflection
indentured to the servitude to a deer that takes headlights in it's iris
Trees spouted of this painful embrace
crawl among the corpses of the victorious
a heart of darkness swells in the raging ocean's voice
Crouched, it whispers into the ear's of an unborn god
leaving it's throne for the computers and treats of the society that captures the helpless
forming them into creations of the next forest's heat
deep into the spiral that is madness, all who enter the mind of the deceased feel the iridescent glow of the dead and damned
unborn and restless the young pray for the water to fill their bellies
as the cars and traffic of this sky become reject's of a bullet's target
a mother's milk is the warmth that God bestows upon the fortunate
virtual dreams consume what was, in a time, a face we knew as her beauty, and the leaves fall again, in this autumn harm is brought upon the one who are altruistic enough to ignore their own loved ones' pain gaining what the grass had over the storeroom of dirt beneath it
Why must the pain brought upon by the inferno not create a concrete foundation for the elders of this realm's fiction? Disabled, they may be, the snow that covers the face of the beast lurks for the meaning in the life laid to waste by the rage of this heat.
All that survives the timeless and infinitesimal pain introduced by the prayers of the ignorant call to the false deity which tampers with the reality his children created on the plaster squares, illuminating the once mysterious hatred that was the dark. Dark that swallowed all veterans, that called upon all faces in the nether, that sought their soul. Forgiveness of these sins is obtained like a dive by a swallow in frigid water, as the building blocks of redemption demand a sacrifice to stars that no longer shine.
Growing old is the patience of the tire that calibrates god's handiwork upon the shore of this new star's wrath.
Theft of the love felt by pounding strings is the essence in which the chosen and righteous claim the heavenly throne, and greet the dragon that refuses to die. Sleeping in the dark is this one until his name and meaning is bespoken by mortals that not know of what he is, and protecting them from the uncertain hut that is the tornado's atrocity-causing villain.
Crushing with the foot of judgement is a task done by the self-righteous in hours needed to be reflected upon as countless eyes stare with their own thoughts on how deep the punishment must go for acts that cut so shallowly. In the collective consciousness of all men there, a profound presence of godly temptation consumes the most gullible man's perception and prescribes a dose of hatred on countless victims, as a consequence of bred violence. The air he shall breathe lacks the bitter emotion that caused his fist to curl with the weight of countless iron, and prevents the sky from seeing the eruption of fury so pure.
Without consequence there is an engine to the genocide machine that god once played with in a yard of boundless potential, before being called back to slumber while creation rots like a soul falling into despair willingly.
Today's inferno is the hatred of what they cannot control, given flight by ignorance to the contrary. Prays unheard by fellow confessors amplify the deafness in the space occupied by the aforementioned hate. Vapid and swift destruction of their ideology is not as important of an impasse compared to the alternative of silencing the speakers of their own mind. No amount of raw value in the faith of others could lead to the outcome that the ancient oral tales warned of, forever foreshadowing the repeated fate self-bestowed upon themselves.
The flames of the eternal are an autumn yet unleashed
born in an envelope of darkness combine with the milk that is the sky's Reflection
indentured to the servitude to a deer that takes headlights in it's iris
Trees spouted of this painful embrace
crawl among the corpses of the victorious
a heart of darkness swells in the raging ocean's voice
Crouched, it whispers into the ear's of an unborn god
leaving it's throne for the computers and treats of the society that captures the helpless
forming them into creations of the next forest's heat
deep into the spiral that is madness, all who enter the mind of the deceased feel the iridescent glow of the dead and damned
unborn and restless the young pray for the water to fill their bellies
as the cars and traffic of this sky become reject's of a bullet's target
a mother's milk is the warmth that God bestows upon the fortunate
virtual dreams consume what was, in a time, a face we knew as her beauty, and the leaves fall again, in this autumn harm is brought upon the one who are altruistic enough to ignore their own loved ones' pain gaining what the grass had over the storeroom of dirt beneath it
Why must the pain brought upon by the inferno not create a concrete foundation for the elders of this realm's fiction? Disabled, they may be, the snow that covers the face of the beast lurks for the meaning in the life laid to waste by the rage of this heat.
All that survives the timeless and infinitesimal pain introduced by the prayers of the ignorant call to the false deity which tampers with the reality his children created on the plaster squares, illuminating the once mysterious hatred that was the dark. Dark that swallowed all veterans, that called upon all faces in the nether, that sought their soul. Forgiveness of these sins is obtained like a dive by a swallow in frigid water, as the building blocks of redemption demand a sacrifice to stars that no longer shine.
Growing old is the patience of the tire that calibrates god's handiwork upon the shore of this new star's wrath.
Theft of the love felt by pounding strings is the essence in which the chosen and righteous claim the heavenly throne, and greet the dragon that refuses to die. Sleeping in the dark is this one until his name and meaning is bespoken by mortals that not know of what he is, and protecting them from the uncertain hut that is the tornado's atrocity-causing villain.
Crushing with the foot of judgement is a task done by the self-righteous in hours needed to be reflected upon as countless eyes stare with their own thoughts on how deep the punishment must go for acts that cut so shallowly. In the collective consciousness of all men there, a profound presence of godly temptation consumes the most gullible man's perception and prescribes a dose of hatred on countless victims, as a consequence of bred violence. The air he shall breathe lacks the bitter emotion that caused his fist to curl with the weight of countless iron, and prevents the sky from seeing the eruption of fury so pure.
Without consequence there is an engine to the genocide machine that god once played with in a yard of boundless potential, before being called back to slumber while creation rots like a soul falling into despair willingly.
Today's inferno is the hatred of what they cannot control, given flight by ignorance to the contrary. Prays unheard by fellow confessors amplify the deafness in the space occupied by the aforementioned hate. Vapid and swift destruction of their ideology is not as important of an impasse compared to the alternative of silencing the speakers of their own mind. No amount of raw value in the faith of others could lead to the outcome that the ancient oral tales warned of, forever foreshadowing the repeated fate self-bestowed upon themselves.
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