The Bosom of Darkness

My journey is beyond the sun, there my bleeding soul will be console in the bosoms of darkness. My mood suffocated from the wake of dawn until dust, because my oxygen comes from within the depths of the glorious night. The thirst of my tongue can only be quench by the tears of the sun, or by the glowing blood of the moonlight. For the manifestation of my sins I hope not to feel contrite. I rather my bitter blood ooze from my tender flesh, than to give refuge to tears in my sight. I further submerge deeper in agony but I'll not cry. I rather slit my wrist and bleed my sadness until I feel delight. Only souls of the gutter, souls of the slum, souls of oppression, and souls of hardship speaks and Comprehend the language of my nocturnal tongue.