One pattern left dead on the mountain floor, abolished by a will to feed on the pretend, the illicit, the disbanded feelings of a righteous void.
A bid to incarnate the path in which the mass' are convinced this is the only way. Not one just picked and tortured, but a full field, making its mark on the landscape. Like that of a balding man, patches emerge and shed misery in the eyes of those whom pass. One stranger bound with sign post read, "for the willing, not the wilful. These trees bleed too"
A bid to incarnate the path in which the mass' are convinced this is the only way. Not one just picked and tortured, but a full field, making its mark on the landscape. Like that of a balding man, patches emerge and shed misery in the eyes of those whom pass. One stranger bound with sign post read, "for the willing, not the wilful. These trees bleed too"