[in his seraph-ruled valley of a heart, to love is to die.]
it is of burnt fingertips and swollen words dripping from broken vocal chords and a voice too rich to hold solid notes of cobalt-spun lies. he forgets to breathe as his lungs fill with betrayal and sorry liquid burning the back of his throat like sweet whisperings of a hell he is all too familiar with. when the sun sets and his heathen comes out, the moon turns a blind eye like it was glassy when he tore apart holy pilgrimages of worship and a distant belief of chilling love. he has payed in numbers, in flowers, the aromas of sin etched into his potpourri-peeling skin. he slips from his own grasp like the fixation he happens to be when light meets illusion. he is but swirling liquid in cheap champagne glasses, full of discrimination in his unloving heart, a combusting mess of cocoa crystals and dead eyes with smiling crescent moons etched on sinful skin.
[in his seraph-ruled valley of a heart, to die is to love.]
