The internals of the outside painted misshaped butterflies upon the ethereal doors of cloud cover.
I’ve stared at this mist from the depths of my mountaintop sunk beneath the soil. It bludgeons me deeper with an infernal grace.
I’m an abandoned house. Fading paint peaks in fiery waves upon my slumbering sides. My innards have become collectors of leathery relics.
Silence conjures ghastly laughter.
A neon hue blinds borrowed time of secondary antidotes.
A rotting corpse moans at the ecstasy of decomposing.
A prayer of thanks for a chicken’s slit
throat.
A computer’s hum numbs senses undiscovered.
The precipice of never is a junkie for forever.
Rapture 