Operattic Trees Conquer Forsaken Moons

Sinister flames burn through satanic valves that devour my tainted spirit. Shackled to the unconscious floor are elusive tombs, longing to be cast away into the fisherman's melodic nets. For the longer I bleed through these icy walls, the angrier your bassoon becomes. Operattic trees shout into the traveling streaks of lightening. For they speak of long ago disease that conquered forsaken moons. "I am not of one measure, the one who slew saintly gems. For I am the maze of whimisical tides. The more I congregate this tattered body, the futile its beams; yet, only assailants of my mystical shields can dance before crisp butterflies."

I will pour my soul into an aphonic cup, and sift through aching ashes of Adonis that guide soldered limbs. Joy is not the taste of the winded galaxy. For it is the river that strums dreams. HIs frowning shield prances through whispering halls, and the golden shepherd speaks my name. "Shivering as the frost along gloating rays of light, I am not of your singing scissors. For to shear an old man's pride is to divide divisions. Remover the remover with your blind hatchet. Let these howling embers bite into your laughing toes; yet, sooth his angelic ivory with heroic scrolls of the weeping sea."