PureVolume

Yes, your eyes speak the language of god! mine.. are of satan's kind

...this blood. is only a fragment of your imagination. A delicate drop, of rain, discolored, falling from satan's dying words we killed him last night, in this cold white room he breathes not a breath of pure air, but ash and coal, our lungs, his servants, we have blackened, inside and out cold, hard and obsolite, we became nothign but black. WE fear no return of light, because we are stronger than that we duck out of sight, at any mention of that. we see no pain, in eachothers eyes we see no tears, as we beg, once more, to cry. we refused all aid, in our own despair, we search no more, for what once, was there. falling shadows, cast a gloomy air, dead atmosphere, and crushed souls lie there we are the imortal, not yet dead, nor living we speak the cursed words of those in waiting buring through time we call it a life, not a sight ever seen of what might come to be we dream of death as an escape from hell but untill death comes our way theres no, way, out. ( this is supposed to be a poem, but it wont let me have it written as one =[ )

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