Phases turn to hatred.
Impatient.
Comparison.
To the demise god.
My life is a fog.
Hurry.
My visions blurry
Slipping through the seams.
I try to scream.
My voice.
Despair.
I cant breath.
Time ticks a tell of horror,
or so I assume.
What can unfold,
through the space time continuum.
Where is my purpose, my shrine of tranquility.
Hellhound prodigies shredding my essence.
Dispatch my pneuma to nirvana.
In the age if Pisces
death is here
The smell of despair clouds the air.
Phases of the moon reposition its self.
Place my ego on the shelf,
for moments of truth.
Neurosis tries to captivate my perception.
It wont succeed.
Even if I bleed a horrible death.
Take my last breath.
I will not rest.
Until I'm free
©️Senses
About the Creator
Senses
Poetry.
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