the silented blurriness of frosted angel wings


Sometimes when I look up into the night sky, I see it filled with a million stars, yet I don't see mine, as punishment of eternal suffering for all the bad things I've done behind a halo of make believe virginity.

And to know that is nothing that can change what has already been destroyed - or pushed beyond the deepest scarred pressure points while halfway throwing a strong blow to even the most stable vines in the rose gardens and too weak to become anything else than what is reflected through the shadows

awakened with the slicing pains of shooting staking destruction

the frosted realitues that once glimmered are now somewhere along the lines of time all the birds had flown away to the hotter burns on the front-row center

while in the shadows - existence pay no mercy to recognition in winter's lifelessness

silenced nothingness raptured into mortality's flght in the everlasting quicksand coils and the ebony angel wings are restless in the silence of ignorance's bliss

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