Imprint

...Climb high the throes of our fate, divulge the sinner, devolve and reconstruct what should have been valued and put on a throne. Cast to splinters, a cry for reality, a whisper for humanity. Dim, but aware, flailing on the wings of misconception, the world has ended and the cries of the damned heave ever heavenward. Like a funeral dirge, unbidden, sung thickly, the hopeless mourn what was. The depths chortle with delight, wiping away the overindulgent like eager spittle, to be forgotten forever. The never-ending mind loop of hell, inescapable, inexorably avoidable but sought after ceaselessly. What has been gained? A life bloated with death's little treats and tricks to learn a few simple lessons? Once learned, immediately forgotten, like the remnants of a one night stand.