𝑴𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒂

I had dreams of the queen wonders that lived inside the hearts of love and silent treatments of all the elderly that I knew were once whole. I seek the revelations of all that the holy told to the unwise in the dreams of cold embers in sunlight that fade across lakes of black blood and snakes that eat the loaves of children from lamb trees in autumn. Endless suffering is the woe of ignorant men who never lack to seek the depth of their own hearts and only see the wealth of a poor world suffering to flay its own back in knife wounds of silver and brutal gladness. The nightmare is a dream to the nameless slug that wanders across minefield and the remains of deer and kings. Nightshade is shadows in all honest blinks that sort through the bile of newborn plagues, instant warmth is a mother's milk in dreams before anything was ever evil. In seconds the sun is beating like drums in all hearts eat the ear of noise. The sensual violence of lust is all the assurance you will ever need to know the worth of life.