Silvered sinew define the scars that now wear the face. Lines of history constantly shifting. Legions of flesh battlegrounds that profoundly extinguish any form of bar room strategy. The dour grimace of savage geometry. Intersections of stitching, a traffic route of dramatic destruction.
Life lines. So very nearly death lines.
Hard not to sit and watch the waves of apathy, the constant ebb and flow of time, the darkened wood, darkened deeds, the charcoal existence of burnt futures. Black holes, broken pencils, fractured memories fighting with shadow men with their blackened souls. Play the divils hand with heavy numbers, sarcasm with claws beckon, predictable substance and the rustle of old cloth upon rotted flesh.
Everywhere are bones, the deeds of dead men gone on before to await the coming of the sin. Adjust the cloak that keeps warm the wan who controls the scythe, for he is life to those who now pay the price. Build the tower upon iced fields of horizontal grey. Beneath the soil the cellar of secrets for they reach out with bony hands of rage that welcome men to their rotten breast. Murdered men, they summon with the baggage of dead men, the true burden of guilt.
