The Motions Of Fears Envy

A Devotion Unworthy Of Language. Laying Eyes On The Second Self-Sainted Skyline, Its Grief Hearth Burning Like The Ash White Memory Of A Sacred Illusion, Breaking Its Consecrations, Resting In The Shattered Remnants Of Sanity. Throwing The Blood Stricken Evidence Of Innocence Back Into The Flesh Folds Of Night. Nights Horrified And Shaken With The Last Bittered Actions Of A Fading Resentment, Self Made And Wholly Damned To Its Own Purgatorial Place Of Demise, Despised And Abandoned. Each Awakening Diminishes A Part Of Being Which Can Never Be Recovered, Weakens And Sickens The Resolve And Sequences An End Unavoidable And Increasingly Necessary.

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