Malum in se

The oblivion veins of disparity.

Glacial as a jejune sigh from the mouth of a sadist.

In equal temperament to the death rattle of fallen priests.

Those that never aspire,

never become the ghosts with which we measure inequities.

Ashes lifted from absconded dreams.

Emptiness scavenged from those that contravene our memories.

Salvation reigns upon tired eyes that continue to wait for the one that got away.

An eternal sleep,

a subversive disease.

Empty are these arms that wait for gelid,

filched silhouettes.

Stolen from the image branded within our retinas.

These pictures retain that miasma of adoration that,

when released,

encapsulate our senses to direct us to the places of yesteryears.

Our fallacious sentiments clash with reality.

Do we truly believe our own morale?

Or is it a façade.

We hide in plain sight.

Our cloaks reveal sunshine and silvery-blue merriment.

While the shadows hovering beneath;

above our hearts,

caress the evils that lay dormant,

yearning for the opportunity.

The conjuration.


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