Write To this; September

[Neruda II]

[P. Mortuus]

A Beautiful Disaster
Written By,Opus.
Was it fate,
That tasted tart,
And unchanged the memories,
Of a broken heart,
You were the fullness in my life,
Now Im left empty and hollow,
Carved out with a knife,
Sour, like a pill thats hard to swallow,
The world seems dimmer,
Without you around,
The stars have no vivacious sparkle,
The music box has no sound,
Candy tastes bitter,
And day is now dark,
Pillows are lead now,
And satin feels hard,
All my senses are melting,
And withering away,
Because you're no longer here,
To preserve my sanity to stay,
Angels are crying,
And death sounds so sweet,
My soul has left me,
And now God, I meet,
I listen to my heart beat fast,
And beat faster,
Until it stops,
To reveal,
My beautiful disaster,
Because fate is a fairytale,
And love is a lie,
Life is so hard,
Its easier to die.

[AriKamelius]

The question is breathing. Free among silent pictures of volume spoken in notes from a fragrance welcoming and warm. The channels voyage of peace grabs a part of the soul seeking within to understand the passageway to the sought answer. Coming with the right question brings forth the remaining lesson, and from this come forth the light – your precious life. Yet, here is…the truth.
Black & White. Good & Evil. Right and Wrong. Peace & Wrath. All of this I am, and am therefore nothing… and the possibility of everything. This I live with and am forever captivated by the ups which are down and down-ups leaving my eyes glazed over in amazement. Find yourself in me and as I look out to find you, I find that we are. And as the long lost are found, we look upon in love with the possibility of ever more.
Destiny and Foreordained. Life and Death. Meek and Strong. Lust and Love. I have found this within me and am therefore nothing…and everything.

[P. Mortuus]

Pulsing colours tickled my imagination
with thier 1 parched finger-
poking and prodding the produce
The 500 fishes rose once-
now the waters are empty-
they reside in thick walls-
like embryos-
except they rot and waste-
turning slowly towards extincsion.

[Soule]

Upon Whose Blood

I must transform by fire, this heat that what my soul's containment
return me to my ash so I might not be lost; interred
first, brush my dusty countenance upon the surface of a simple jar
then, tend me to the fire to bond upon the vessel's form
now, hard; cast down this urn and gather up the fragments
these shards reshape in energy the fashion of my memory
they can no more be reassembled as myself
than life itself can be contained
so, worry not that I've escaped the tyranny of womb to worm
and scatter wide this broken vessel's flesh for time to work its will
in that-in turn-my guest will fall complete
embrace this soil and you will know how kindred is the land
upon whose blood all origins converge
make blossoms of our veins and bones.

[P. Mortuus]

^this one is already over peep the mag.

[Soule]

Fuck.