I Am the Bitter Taste of Gall
I contemplate the decaying force of the forged nature, that i have been forced to admire. None of this is more special then a bitter draft at sunrise.
I am just flesh attached to bones that serve no other purpose, other than rotting;
The beauty of everything that has ever yearned to be beautyful is just makeup on existentialist dross;
I am the bitter taste of gall that circulates in the veins of those who still consider the eternal penitence a godly gift.
All your idols are dead, they died in vain, what for?