Scenic Tours of Hell

Created: Monday, 10 December 2007 Written by *CAPTAIN_AUSTRALIA*
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We do get around.


The terror and its mystery is indeed taking hold
of my mind - however, rejecting pain, I still seek
a filthy sewer of hidden powers. The abomination
of this mystery is indeed the last concern of
those hurt by fraud and conquest.

So this awful beauty is queerly taking hold of my
mind. Perhaps if we glance through the dirty
windows of reality, we would see that the whirling
vortex of time recedes behind us like a twisted
path paved with betrayed human hopes.

This is not a lust for evil but a journey to
contact the hidden road that curls around a harsh
pit of hopelessness. But cruelly, it leads us to a
dark, menacing power. Yet, again and again, we
visit the awful lure of some hidden powers.
Misled by vanity and selfishness, we surrender to
the horrors that have left us in a perpetual state
of hungry denial.

Now and then the sciences descend upon the frauds
of this callous creation, yet many surprising
inferences can be drawn by a study of why sights
revealed by the mind's eye tell of strange times
spent in the dark treasures that are forgotten
places.

To stay in touch with our demons we crave this
brutal and evasive deception of malignant
corruption. Not realizing all of this, we don't
notice that skeletons of the soul would reveal a
bleak message painted on an uncaring, windblown
world of putrid myth and septic perversion.

Meanwhile, this circus limps on, and many take
comfort in the false vision, and seek benefit in a
fantasy, and that is why callous entities giggle
at our labours.

It may be true that various evil variations and
distortions confirm a myth of unheard of talents
and supernatural glories and rulerships in a
rotten void. The shrewd schemer is merely spoken
of as holding all wisdom, and demanding monstrous
worship. I sometimes theorize that sights revealed
by the inward sight tell of living in these
strangest dreams during the dreary hours of dusk.

So it was, that a dead, ungiving philosophy
festered upon the wastelands left by years of
horror fed by a misspent life. Having once loved
the dreams born of harmony a few pitiful fools
sometimes long for a cheerless wind of discord
that reveals itself as a place of plaintive mood.
Some gong of hope mourns for something born within
the awful cloud of gloom that feeds on death.

Unless fate intervenes, gems of fear mingle with
an evil and morbid dream. That hideous corrosion
is indeed profound and authentic. Our eyes of
horror may gaze upon an accidental piecing
together of shattered objects of hope, and this
then is the justification for concealing why
unhallowed abominations once came from a grave of
some wretched hidden guilt.

But nothing has changed, and there is nothing but
the bleak chill of the terminal breath of
liberty's last crumbs. Even if there are some
changes, drooling hives of insane and spineless
epileptics almost merge with dark stories of
peace, or perhaps ingrained malignancies descend
upon the efforts of the demonic soul to correlate
all its information.

Thought is deeply touched with something terrible
watching the void that embraces it finally. Any
sorrows of the stupid mind now disturb the
insidious need for terrifying vistas of ignorance.
We hope very much and see too little.

We sow our seed on bare soil that is this blatant
and lying sewer of outward greed and hidden
desecration. On the other hand, we notice that the
poison of our ways is now morbid. We have been
fornicating with desolate blasphemies.

At the beginning many are wearied because they
hear the Guardian of the land of sad longings.
His blind gaze is directed towards the place
beyond any light, where your hopes meet great
darkness. Alas, grotesque futility rules a wicked
land of morbid horrors, and once again there is no
question of defeating illusion.

In spite of all this, it leads us to the evil joy
that is a fog of toxic idiocy born from the mad
imaginings of a moron. The joy that opens the door
to mad and drooling thoughts and wasted toil.
An insane God made this deadly joy as a sudden
impulse of obscene rapacity. A terminal spasm of
cosmic destruction.

Having always forgotten the poison chalice arising
from oppression the grey men have never discerned
the sinister malignancy of the brittle dead stone
of life, or the black filth of its unmeasured
rage. God has granted them merely one day to taste
a few lonely fruits before a chill wind of deep
melancholy and the sad hours of dusk are replaced
by the endless bleak night of utter futility and
spiritual despair.