Imgormiel
Part of the furniture
- Joined
- Apr 18, 2004
- Messages
- 4,372
Smoulder
Beer glass dark. A liquid complimented by a moon crest. The usual place. The bar attained with a mood likened to that of smouldering silence. Conversations kill. Kill the moments spent in concentration. Concentration trained like tracks heading in one direction. One purpose spent in the deserts of time. Time that has the swift action of the eagle searching for its prey.
Thoughts breed in the mind like rabbits copulating in their warrens. Multiplying tangents upon tangents. Inexplicably deranging and deceiving the original thought of prose. Yet, fickle in their assembly. The mind arrives in disarray and disfigurement. Bent on frustration, revenge and destruction.
The purpose nigh on completion. You muster all of your will to deliver the great heretic. Just a small piece of space denying the annals of fate and consternation. Further consumption of the fuelling beer glass reveals yet more dark nakedness. More sizzling liquid and energy. Destined for the path of failure. Capitulation follows. The fires of anger snuff themselves out and fade. Leaving a festering taste in the mouth and mind. The glass empty. The thirst unquenched. Voraciously we drink this to ourselves in a destiny of iterative statement.
Beer glass dark. A liquid complimented by a moon crest. The usual place. The bar attained with a mood likened to that of smouldering silence. Conversations kill. Kill the moments spent in concentration. Concentration trained like tracks heading in one direction. One purpose spent in the deserts of time. Time that has the swift action of the eagle searching for its prey.
Thoughts breed in the mind like rabbits copulating in their warrens. Multiplying tangents upon tangents. Inexplicably deranging and deceiving the original thought of prose. Yet, fickle in their assembly. The mind arrives in disarray and disfigurement. Bent on frustration, revenge and destruction.
The purpose nigh on completion. You muster all of your will to deliver the great heretic. Just a small piece of space denying the annals of fate and consternation. Further consumption of the fuelling beer glass reveals yet more dark nakedness. More sizzling liquid and energy. Destined for the path of failure. Capitulation follows. The fires of anger snuff themselves out and fade. Leaving a festering taste in the mouth and mind. The glass empty. The thirst unquenched. Voraciously we drink this to ourselves in a destiny of iterative statement.
