Dawn crests the peaks of barren refuse, enthralling masses and demanding rations of passion from muck
Stuck into walls, hanging out halfway, suspended by calls of anguish and hate
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Little does it matter for our pain and thoughts
Little does it falter in it’s saintly rot
And little does it rain down pleasure atop rocks
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Towering pulses in cavernous chests booming altering noises of gloomy doom and distress
decompression
decompress
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Such success in sessions of secessions thought best bring messy manipulations of emotions and stress
Blessedly pressing the rest into vests of blasting intent and the buying of souls not spent
The buying of souls not spent
The theft of moral defense
The theft of moral defense
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