I dwell unwanted like aborted fetal remains, left to suffer the stench of the dead and the dying on the path to God. Dreary, clotted loathing consumes me, breaking quickly against a Higher surface and wearing down, like so many misanthropes whose barriers reserve them; like so many whose affinities are limited to eloquence. Nothing common exists where these dual pathways diverge-- obtuse from Alpha to Omega, each pass twisted to undermine moral progression.

Pallid grey matter integrates little, sightless like shadows where comprehension lacks clarity-- speaking as if voices were like echoing fragments, like mirrored apparitions of burden that wear down minds with omnipotent oppression; constricting the breath of well-formed lungs, lying misshapen inside ideal thoughts. External dilema is left to decay. Above realizes the remission of this less formal sin, as shades of regret manifest unbidden, biting with such insect voracity that it grates upon the surface of a personalized deceptive front, revealing the true nature of what I've become: A truly abominate grotesquerie, masquerading in flesh and blood and skin. Eyes sight fault, wherefore's lost behind a quickened stream of scarlet vanity, self-infliction radiant as vision fails acuity, insomnia refusing to overturn into a lifeless sleep.

In comparison to such volatile atrocities, only solitude holds sway, looming like some dark horror above me, seeking to atomize the every fiber of my being. Crushing velvet indigo light pains and despairs me--the electric/synaptic response to optical/physical stimuli-- gives option to anger as my baseline corruption; gnawing deliberately at my ravaged-- and ravenous mind until psychological mutilations take place, shaking the shambled structure deep within to mantle and earth, daunting the only hope I had left for peace, placed where no remnants survive.

Memory reveals the shorter distance to delusion, blind to basic reasoning, as mine falls consistently inadequate in my own short-sightedness. Jagged edges of the same sensations impale, until the affections turn afflictions, burning morbid like cancer-- leaving nothing good to surface... not even on a monochromatic level. Crooked desire is smothered to absence within misery, stretched far too thin to process wisely within this third-rate, real-time psychosis.

Hollow eyes fail to recognize existence for what it truly is: A loaded gun. I am affronted... I am the thorn cutting exquisitely into the side of you; I am the product of lust without love; I am the darkness that negates your sight until the fear of God is in you... do you fear? Looking-glass fails the requisite intensity, otherwise lamented to compel distracted eyes-- upon whose request, perversity does prevail. Hastened to hatred, this vertiginous atmosphere shatters and twists around me, provides me as the soul benefactor of the corrupted half-life degradation therein, so thoughtfully, paving my own path to damnation’s doorstep.