Barren, first, the golden nest. The budding breast.
Bloated with mystical, imaginary potential that paused in glory with thoughts of ghosts, fled.
The ebbing, unknown wound. The disfigured prison of resonant debauchery;
Seeping through cracks, corroded with mold.
Blissfully ignorant insanity.
Misled prayers for sunshine in the hopeless, godless cathedral of rapid time.
Like a tsunami of death, a roaring river of blood, drowning the life out of all that was good.