The Vanities of My Abyss
My nightmares quench their thirst in the bowels of misery,
To silence the pains of my color, my fears denounce death.
I will end in the shadowed silence of a dilapidated cemetery,
Yet I chase the glory of these fleeting vanities built on thrones of dust.
My wounds torment me before the flattery of these bloodthirsty scavengers,
I anesthetize my demons with the hard drugs of my ordeal,
It is suffering that grants me the clearest insight.
I hunt immortality in an ocean of transgressions.
I am a freedom-drunk guerrilla; to be a slave is a curse.
My scars tell the penitence of my blessings.
The devil swore me loyalty, yet he already bore the taste of betrayal.
Since then, I walk alone through the ruins of my hell, with desolation as my only home.
I adore the darkness; it whispers what light ignores.
In the sweetness of terror, I found a refuge the world demonizes.
I do not fear dying, but living in the cramped confines of a morbid existence.
I drag my coffin along the highway of dissent, pockets full of nails.
The angel of death lashes my traumatized soul with the cowardice of suicide.
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