IN-SIGHT

Torn rainbows, detrimental, detached remnants, cast shadows drift down alleyways in deserted yards. Beans, or even worn-out clothespins, the w***e's soul, teaching us to endure and survive at all costs. It bumps here and there on its pitiful fibre of life, and like a dying, alamusian comet, it buttons itself up to the chin in nakedness, and then takes off and puts on as it pleases. 

His life is a desert swamp, steaming. His scars, torn to the bone, are almost always preserved with interest by the aging Time. A lonely, barren lunar landscape becomes the sneaking, crypt-perfect, approaching; it strips itself bare, humiliates itself in a thousand forms. 

Schizophrenic mirrors stand tottering in the throne-room of his dreams, while lost souls yawn among themselves. The haunted midnight eyes the secret revelation with more and more scowl, but it can be known the Nothing's groove-face scratch-masked. - If the illusive creature dare even dream, it will sooner or later forget all. 

The onion-skin-born soul deliberately pushes away the bewitching, bewitching words of the soul. There will always be faces born in the backlight, and bodies whose changing forms are preserved in their pupils by the seeing-eyes. Why is it that an icy shudder runs from the labyrinth of brains to the tamed molecule of instinct.

Unmoving glides of memory, a treacherous web of lies of a past act may be cast upon it unnoticed, until at last it all slips away. Adopted loyalty often escapes when confronted with subtle temptations. 

Unmoving glides of memory, a treacherous web of lies of a past act may be cast unnoticed, until at last all is slipping away. Adopted loyalty often escapes when confronted with subtle temptations. Babylon's cursed transgression can no longer be atoned for by villainous devils. The soul is ever toiling on its self-praise. 

Everywhere a treacherous consequence is in store, if we betray ourselves, what is left of our souls?!