Under the moon's mercy, chills metastasize nirvana to rimy hellscapes.
With hell locked in a boreal state, nefarious seeds are planted within the freshly ripened basalt.
Ovules sprout tangles of barbarous vines that encase the limbs in taut, unyielding shackles as relentless thorns pierce the tender skin of innocent victims.
With threats of bloodshed they pull you into sempiternal despair, claiming you as one of them.
However; hope finds its way through black-lined clouds of hysteria.
The warmth of the smosh sun materializes the frosted nether realm.
Unable to defeat the thorns, they instead allow pulchritudinous roses to bloom.
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