Sin sets in like writing on the stone of the Tabernacle. A fixed
gaze watches the snow and ice arrive, then melt into the ground,
giving way to leaves budding into their full display. Decades pass
in threes leading to the pinnacle of a doomed and damned mind.
Addiction for language in birthing the mundane and profound.
My eyes turn to glassy unseeing orbs of memory, unable to
differentiate between the hardened walls of reality, and the oozing
coat of its painted dreams. Haunted by ghosts with their desperate
grasp on bodies, filling their need for the flesh they will never
have.
Desensitized, violent visions of a time I will not ever see.
[21:33|12.10.013] ©c.thomas.carter
