The Death Box

The room, as dim as the twilight sugars that skim throughout the chapel surfaces. I have failed to escape the demented death box I have entered. As blood would harbour something so abhorrent, as a dream might examine itself as a mythical casement of blasphemies and obtuse tales that the women tell their young as they drift away into the arms of a witch as unsightly as sin whose mellow lullaby feeds off the cerebellum of their useless minds. As fowl as it seems and as fantastic as the endless stars in space, the nightmares that lurked in a child, to sleep, to dream, and as that one child rests in a secluded box; the death box, there are no dreams here, only what you assume they are. The death box, it steals and disposes the soul and mind of those in it, only in it. The wickedness of soul, this is a statement, a memorable statement that earns you an excursion into the Hell that it is, the death box... Never go near that judgmental box, or should you?...

Author's Note

One of my horribly written.