bliss were the days.
the ones that lasted not but. .
until the crying sun broke silence.
by bloody tongues.
rotten. and hungry.
longing for the grace of the son of man.
the foul flesh of its own. ..
and yet still.
through its motions.
ripen. and rotten . at the same time
brutally betraying the balance.
the reality which held us whole was no more.
with violent intolerance.
the kind which.
eats souls whole.
and is eaten alike.
labors to find sleep.
in its tireless effort to conform the chaos of passion. .
could never replace the northern most wind.
that which blows true to eternity.
and so. the rotten roots of the seemingly stable trees.
which ravage our every effort to be free . . .
and blast apocalypse.
and we move.
on. and also into eternity.
to these feeble phallic fantasies of
ferocious fuck facedness.