I am the very temple of delight, veiled melancholy has her softened shrine, those seeing of none shall save him whose strenuous tongue can burst joy's grape against his palate wide. His soul shall taste the sadness of her might and be among her cloudy trophy's hung. The wayward vagabond blistering across the maelstrom of empty blithering ambitions. Their emotions a shriveled prune tossed away but like wreck on the ocean. The own denizens ethical egoism challenged. Blistering the uncouth actions reflected upon more frequently fortnight after fortnight. The massive truth an malicious act of malum en se corrupting the child's fragile eggshell mind, forever eating away of his dwindling innocence. His unpleasant rictus glaring across the sea of eager faces. An unpleasant taste washed across the sea of euphoria. A state of tyranny, a tour de force tapping into the very trumpet of hope eating away at our eventual end. But where is this foaming messiah cast upon our rotting lives as a very beacon of promise. WAKE UP. A green monster by my bedside slithering ever so silently. His pilfered thoughts gently removing all conciseness from his growing insanity. There's been a slaughter here. The ankles of society have been gnawed, the motor of establishment stopped, the oedipal exuberant light darkened forever incarcerated in a gilded cage. And there stood The Lizard King
May Desmond enter you, always.
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