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Shorn of apocryphal pride, the locks falls predicting strife. Cranium
exposed, denial of aesthetic. Push it a little farther. All of this burnt to
ashes, all of this torn to rags. I don't know what the fuck have I become?
Synapses snapping mortality decimated. Breakdown whiskey shifts hate into
overdrive. Realizing it's murder of the self so clean. Hand reaches out
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desecrates impunity. Ripping away foundation's identity replacing with
shame. Transgression mythologized, indiscretions immortalized. Anger
inflamed with dry rot, pushing towards severance. What a bloody mess.
Visiting dark sites unknown, grief lands like a ton of bricks. All of this
burnt to ashes, all of this torn to rags...
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