12-11-2013, 01:59 AM
The void speaks the names of the ruined, of the spiritually deceased who have yet to rise from oblivion's grave.
They stand, vexed by turmoil, and reach out to the heavens for a reprieve that is not their's to have.
They walk among us, draped in the garb of kings that smell of sweet perfume, adorning the world with saintly smiles that few would think to question.
Yet one need only look passed the mirage of flesh to see a naked soul trembling in a darkness they themselves created, the soul that they deny and never speak of but whom their broken hearts mourn.
Their soul reeks of decay, a stench that rises and stings the nostrils as sweet perfume, with cries of anguish that echo through the halls as laughter. No one knows what rots on the inside, what becomes more and more a hollowed shell. But this is the price that many men pay to be adored by their kin, to have the light of suns themselves kiss their feet. Let them kill the spirit that the gods afford them, for what greater men exist in this world than those dying to live?
They stand, vexed by turmoil, and reach out to the heavens for a reprieve that is not their's to have.
They walk among us, draped in the garb of kings that smell of sweet perfume, adorning the world with saintly smiles that few would think to question.
Yet one need only look passed the mirage of flesh to see a naked soul trembling in a darkness they themselves created, the soul that they deny and never speak of but whom their broken hearts mourn.
Their soul reeks of decay, a stench that rises and stings the nostrils as sweet perfume, with cries of anguish that echo through the halls as laughter. No one knows what rots on the inside, what becomes more and more a hollowed shell. But this is the price that many men pay to be adored by their kin, to have the light of suns themselves kiss their feet. Let them kill the spirit that the gods afford them, for what greater men exist in this world than those dying to live?