Friday, August 7, 2009

Pinnacle of Pain

The artificial seasons in the abyss stands towards the nature and its own reason.
The ode for the often dead, rhymes closer towards my head and the poverty struck with a morose tear.
Stand inside a iron maiden, and sell my pity for a dime. Just for this humane crime.
Shower your lead into talk and thought, it wont be the easy way so you lose your methods and madness.
The terrible affliction is taking on a color of black inside you and I . Don’t you believe me? Do you think of me to be crooked.
I am not the world which you see.
I am the world you need.
The last hope , it drowns in a part of my head.
It remains there like for a time not known to me.
Some where in this lost hope, it shall remain buried
In the minds of men and monsters.

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