Barren, first, the golden nest.

The budding breast.

Bloated with mystical, imaginary potential that pause in glory with thoughts of ghost, fled.

The ebbing, unknown wound.

The disfigured prison of resonant debauchery;

Seeping through cracks, corroded with mold.

Blissfully ignorant insanity.

Misled prayers for sunshine in the hopeless, godless cathedral of rapid time.

Like a tsunami of death, a roaring river of blood, drowning the life out of all that was good.