Sporadic spores of indignation creep across the lush life of eons gone by, Hurled into the next, to the evaporated contrite spirit of once kings, that now crawl like scurvish men, fiending feverishly for morsels of sanity. A gasht are the voices which scale the heights of eternity. Treading mountains of souls trampled by the minds of the masses, flooded by bile and honey. To stand is to fall and to fall is to stand, the circle of correction, the lessens burnt, slashed, beaten, sweet essence is derived from flowers such as these, for they cannot break, it cannot be stolen. Time brings forgetfulness, comfort and weakness, where is the road of the outcast, for as if they are. no, it is the sheep believed to be goats that have been found wanting. They bear the mirror without reflection. The devourer of time opens wide, time torn asunder leaking minuscule fragments twisted into bursts of energy fulfilling the toll that is due.
About the Creator
Johnny Gerbrandt
Love lifting, love writing, love designing. My journey is a strange one but I love it. learning constantly.
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