A twisted morphologist engulfs the
Last ray of hope. The beauty of
A complete security breach in the
Schedule shines in the dark eyes of
A schemeing demon, bent on forming
A fracture in Madam Macrocosms ever
Eternal agenda. An infernal presence
Known as an anticelestial toxicity
Reforming our beautiful panaroma with
Their revolving hands, shaping futures
Like dying, ephemeral clay. Dust to
Dust, so it shall be with our adobe entities.
And no the mindscape is not suffering
Acute Schizophrenia, the toxicity is not
A futurustic dictator or Satanic hell cult
Bent on waking doom and demise a little
Early for this universe. These things are
YOU.
Life and Nature are our paper, our
book, our diary. The power to create
a beautiful novel is at the tips of our
fingers, tounges, and minds. Let us
not spill our ink and create an inkblot.
Seeing the timberline in hell, or perhaps
An ocean of blood instead of the
Aquamarine fantasies we have come to
Know via short stories before bedtime,
Is not a dream if mine. Traversing
A Post-Carthaginian landscape until
We choose to close our eyes and
Fade into a divine cradel is just
Another way of condemning yourself
To your own personal apocalypse, and
Punching a ticket for the pleasant
Neighbor next door. A silver spoon
Taken for granted is used to sip
Poison from the cup you bought
yourself, your own consumnation,
your own deal, your own fault.
Life and Nature are our paper, our
book, our diary. The power to create
a beautiful novel is at the tips of our
fingers, tounges, and minds. Let us
not spill our ink and create an inkblot.
Life In An Inkblot
- Soulstice