Into the night, our blustery lives, single moments caught in time, a whisper in the storm, barely heard above the roar.

Till we seen the sun, a loaded gun, a bottle of rum, memories drifting into the mind, mined, pathetically, into the universe we spun, our hands held tight against the wheel, we tried to shield ourselves against the raging storm, madness reeling, realized, philosophy, the eagerness of honeyed lies, sweet word plagerized, lost my mind too many damn times, lost count back many miles, fly, into the light, but darkness holds me tight.

Lies, said, tried, on wings, delicately ripped from steely hips, angel eyes, demon lips, here doth rage the dying of the light, cream flowing from deep inside, rage, does the bitterly, fly, the butterfly does!

Here lies passion, buried with that love, lies cold in hallow ground, pagan wishes sodomized by tribal disease, our butterfly does not fly, for it cannot, against the howling winds, that raging storm, held back by our torn and weary coats.



Who sees the blossoms on the tree? Who hears the whispers of a true love? Who does sing, that, a courting song upon a midnight sigh?

Do you not hear?

Dare thee see upon an angel’s face, pressed her lips, that region that bears the luscious fruit of Mother Earth?

Oh how I fear I shant be worth that blessed and cursed place! It drives me mad merely thinking of it, oh the Gods, a fitting joke upon me!

Into the night, we spun, and played and diddle and daddle, we sipped the new wines, sinned in blessed virtues of sin, madness, our lust, bringing us nearer to Hell.

Was Heaven this place? Upon my knees, though not praying, feeling, moaning, praising and cursing in love, lust, rage of madness left in a river of the moon, flooding the valley, cursing the land….

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