Ships are sailing in the deep, the ocean fell out from the back of the annals of time. Who brought the rations of scraps into the store house. The war path leads to nothing but eradication, blooming as flowers from the pits of hell fire. The church house is filled to the brim, like a whiskey glass on the rocks. But its so cold, pressed against the lips of desolation. Its ordination completely dismisses the temperance of the clocks hands, it may take heed for the words I say but this is not certain.
Contributor- Chris Ballenger