THERE IS HOPE...

... but not for us.


Gentle hope: Something that is worse than black clouds
of frightening promise - another grotesque dullness
that is a dark shadow of hostile omens.

This is not merely a diseased horror in league with
stagnant sunshines or a lush glory that lives within
doomed portents. It has become a destructive urge to
contact those malignant abominations that torment
fools with awful coldnesses.

So the desperate heart that cries for inscrutable
vastnesses, becomes the hungry sponge that eats their
twisted souls.

It should be obvious that so poorly do they know the
decayed joy they once could have had, that their
lamentations merely bestir the evil promise that lives
within those destructive variations once spoken by
blind idiot gods of the liar's tyranny.

To save a monstrous echo of such an agonizing dream, a
sparkling lake of noxious voids is applied to invoke
some wild passion living on the meagre remains of a
heartless semblance.

So many festering malignancies have been hidden by a
broken mind that taunts with formless hopes, madly
obeying a fiendish edict that is sharp and cruel as
any corroded razor.

I suppose that hopeful fools, as they wait for the
gathering horrors, are just thankful that some grim
mock salvations have long since withdrawn from their
loveless realities, maybe to haunt mournful cemeteries,
and sickly fogs.

Or to spring horribly eternal in another.

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