Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

Acheronian

Her whisper faint, her golden soul escapes.
The shadows grow much bigger in the night,
Creating fatal flaws from wretched shapes.
No limits, no hopes, no dreams to recite.

The monsters bawl, the screaming from within
Leaves scars curious enough to draw forth
The most delicious of the mortal sins...
But she writhes with finality, the north,

She cannot see; Beings motley with death,
Singing the aura's to sleep while daylight
Suffocates and smothers her. Her last breath
Lost amongst a flicker of hope and sleight.

Beneath the borrow of lavendar, she
Will turn life into a monster for me.

7-22-10


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Acheronian

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