These fragile words, are harmful to the wavering souls of the magistery. Three steps too far from the staircase, enthralled in dangerous overcompensation. You feel threatening glances, peering into your eyes as black as the night skies. Cloaks found their way to your homestead, overlapping the rooftops and caverns that lashed from within. They cursed you with judgement, your guilt found in words without meaning. Those old monsters, who are creeping within your bed chambers. Candles lit within your soul, hoping to finally cast those shadows away from your hearts contentment. They find you wanting less, your desire for nourishment ceases to come to pass. Hideous and winding fists, wreak havoc on your non existent wounds. Do you find it pleasurable, finding a sort of satisfaction in the fear of fortune.
Contribute- Chris Ballenger