Feverish Seeds of Garnet Eyes

Seductive mountains burn into the sapphire sky, and cause the heavens to weep into my crystal soul. I flourish when I am miles away from the feverish seeds you have sown. For this is an allegorical song that bleeds into the hallow trees. Sifting through your ashes of deceit, I notice the sacred horn that blows my fault line away. For I shall burn no more inside your fierce cauldron. Your hateful brew shall dream into her floral patterns. Garnet eyes shall drink up misty waters, and the abyss shall want of your soul when the brass frog speaks your name.

I am the nuance of His sacred breath. For I shall cause your scroll to bleed through the flowering tiger's vengeful eyes, and feed scrutiny to jaded lobsters who beseech themselves in the demise of man. For the core of this foundation holds blind stipulations of truths belonging to the attrocities of this beastly cup, from which I drink your stoned brew. I am corrupted with cruelty for my master. For as long as the frigid delve into sanctified pools of angry sunsets, forever lost shall foul roads be to the aloft and the siege. I will encumber your engrossing song, and let it follow me into lordly kingdoms, if only to breathe in this lavish fire that burns inside my marshy corpse.

Frigid airways compose frothy valves to dance within the Crimean tides of my ivory soul. Danger intrigues me. For your damper ways devour mindful rivers belonging to the bleeding sun. I am not a fountain of your wretched tongue that lashes out at me with skilled nets casting me out into the zesty ocean to fish out weaponry hidden within my salty tomb. For you are not my seedy eyes, but you have become the dance that sways my golden spirit high into the somber clouds who cry down upon madden bridge. For there is a marching band bending vicious flames into your weary eyes. The gloating ocean follows whispering minds into my emotional fire. Where is my foundation from which heaven used to walk with me hand in hand down soothing flames that now reside with you? I am carried into the elastic tunnel that has dressed you up with broken strings that bleed into my humble lips. What shall become of redemption, shall become. Seething arouses temperamental years to come alive; yet, this song that has just begun to blossom into whiskey and rye, consumes Asiatic moons, crying into the drum I have become.

My body is a log that feeds on trepid light. Gothic halls breed your spiteful cauldron, but I frown upon this disease that milks the earth. Mountains of purple majesties cry thirsty pearls; yet, I am not your drowning limb, nor do I hunger for you anymore. Time has betrayed your arrogant masquerade. I can see it in your jaded eyes. For your soul is the temperamental window that pulls the army of trees under shifty fire, and depletes the mindful valve.

Blue crush tender by strain dances through my stormy spirit. I am the sour note that bleeds into paper moons. For this is ancient song that feeds on humanly bliss. I gasp for air when the steamy ocean sends its fire down into my windpipes; yet, the weeping music continues to strum my frozen heart that wallows.