I harbored alot of my emotion and thought in here.
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Tears precipitate as a conflagration of encrypted wisdome,
Perspiration transcends comprehension as it cascades through fatigue.
The incognito and iconoclast now conceive eternall knowledge.
The infinitely mutating depiction of time is laid prey to the survivor.
Is endurance derived from the longing for this immeasurable wealth?
Or is it simply that the illusion of power has manifested itself in turmoil?
I have fallen to this hallucination,masquerade to the identity of Divinity.
I,The most relentless desciple of lamentation have discovered immortality.
Only,to have it washed away,By the ravaging crusade of imperfection and tear.
Now,Every image I contemplate is blanketed by despondency and melancholia.
In a ounce well nourished garden of existence,where were composed Beaty,
Were was orchestrated symphonies of benediction and utter delight,
Were were proliferated the magnifecence of music and art,Of love and harmony,
Were were impregnated the pulchritudinous thoughts of emotional celestials,
Were were delivered radiant offspring of angelic crystals derived from sung canticles,
Are now The wicked children of a parturiency adorned with the blood of my imagination!
And now every single lyric secreted from the sanctum of my acursed fountain of damnation,
Is but the next page in the threnody of my exsistence.
