by Armand D'Avencourt
I Love You, my Stargazed, Bereaved, Somber. Disconsolate. Hidden from the divine torment of serpentine sun.
Yes! The mortals got their souls and blood coursing.
*But, you got ferocious raven dwell devouring the spirits in exasperation.
Yes! The mortals laugh in merriment.
* But your mere simper victimises the silent, the poor, the quiet, the fat, the ugly as their flesh fracture in the grotesque parody of life-driven agitation.
Royal amusement, indeed..
Yes! The mortal lovers whisper the words of consolation.
But your whisper is of the Queen - as it forces waterfalls of horrific ecstasy and the Moloch structure of dirt, soaking, crawling, animated by legions of deceased mimicking the Last Judgement !
Royal parade, a Resurrection Theatre, indeed.
One of The Stargazed,
The Heralds, Materialised But Never Created. Animated But Never Spirited. Dwell of her Venerate Putrid Claret. Vehement Foes. Delicate Heretic Emotions Arabesque. Ferocious Falcon. Child Of The Black Monolith.
I Love You
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