Morte
I feel the Scythe burn with all the trappings of a cold ephemeral light. Take the cloth of my solace, and the barbed skin of such a sweet pear. The vowels of Agamemnon blister on the red coals as a black almond burns, aggravating apocalyptic urns; inviting the four wolves to disobey their wet feast and flee screaming under a moonless and maddening night. The children with ocean less eyes, and the groan of lead bells, lolling appeasements, and blood tasting of consecrated wine, destroying apathy, empathy, the chagrin of ancestral molestations as the Opus silvers on the devils vine. The cherry wood of such a master less violin; weeps without end.
~S~
[IMGhttp://www.museumeducation.bedford.gov.uk/Bedfordbytes/nature/images_nature/gallery_natural_objects/images/Death's%20head%20Hawk-Moth_jpg.jpg[/IMG]
I feel the Scythe burn with all the trappings of a cold ephemeral light. Take the cloth of my solace, and the barbed skin of such a sweet pear. The vowels of Agamemnon blister on the red coals as a black almond burns, aggravating apocalyptic urns; inviting the four wolves to disobey their wet feast and flee screaming under a moonless and maddening night. The children with ocean less eyes, and the groan of lead bells, lolling appeasements, and blood tasting of consecrated wine, destroying apathy, empathy, the chagrin of ancestral molestations as the Opus silvers on the devils vine. The cherry wood of such a master less violin; weeps without end.
~S~
[IMGhttp://www.museumeducation.bedford.gov.uk/Bedfordbytes/nature/images_nature/gallery_natural_objects/images/Death's%20head%20Hawk-Moth_jpg.jpg[/IMG]
I feel the Scythe burn with all the trappings of a cold ephemeral light. Take the cloth of my solace, and the barbed skin of such a sweet pear. The vowels of Agamemnon blister on the red coals as a black almond burns, aggravating apocalyptic urns; inviting the four wolves to disobey their wet feast and flee screaming under a moonless and maddening night. The children with ocean less eyes, and the groan of lead bells, lolling appeasements, and blood tasting of consecrated wine, destroying apathy, empathy, the chagrin of ancestral molestations as the Opus silvers on the devils vine. The cherry wood of such a master less violin; weeps without end.
~S~
[IMG]http://www.museumeducation.bedford.gov.uk/Bedfordbytes/nature/images_nature/gallery_natural_objects/images/Death's%20head%20Hawk-Moth_jpg.jpg[/IMG]