in the ashes of angels, there is nothing but apathy. saviors on either side, somewhere at the end of it, weeping. in the shade of my song, the story is a worthy fake. engine-sold sins of the salvation instrument. one more skeleton, and the chain and wave fuck. hushes in cataclysmic, ordered faces. screams out on nothing, nothing but beautiful acquisition. feast of the destinies attained like circles spreading and believing in an allegorical vertigo. panic of shapes surviving their mask.
the second before despair, shades in loop are spectral doubles for the cross as shield. a religion born in the shadow of the moon & scruples are animals sick of being embodied. their's is the only laugh, closing a mechanical heart set to trust fateful – reduced allegories.
the salesman and the illusionist fornicate between two dusks. crushed passion between and nobody - nobody sifting through the polystyrene. overhead go the specters. plays of teethy bliss. seeking a liplike return. theirs is the only skull, dictating, sleeping. i do not think the procession will sell at all.
the only thing to come now is judgement.
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