The silhouette of death is loneliness

In which Ophidians may strike with bliss.

The mind moistens to ponds of ticking winds,

The soul represses purity for black,

And demons creep to reap the dying minds.

For what escape presents itself to thee?

Thou art a pris’ner to the itching arms

Of lurking shadows; wisps; monsters now free

To prey upon the isolat’d in their alarm.

The corner by thy friend for thy welfare

For hungry be the monsters’ stomachs wracked

To consume! to consume! All thou mayst dare.

What of the vision? Thought or nightmare’s spell?

For thou seest in mirrors an irised Hell.

Original Image

  Check out my YouTube channel! I make create stories on there as well and tell them in a different type of format: Mr. X


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s