Mark Ryden

With a voice lacking compassion. Benevolence is overrated. The bombers flew over the holy land. Just a child, looking up at the oblivion, damnation profession. Confessional, the pews are empty as her porcelain stained tears spilled. Rosary. Jesus Mary Child. Grown up, her words echo the silence.

Forty five minutes and seventy-nine months. People think of him like the hatter, though he’s nothing more than the white rabbit – steering into the flow with eyes sewn shut to cancel out the light. Burning red, fading hopes. Vacant. Disinfected. The father’s abortion spilled. Seed stained. Utter the words and the prayers. Count the beads upon his fingers. Each one, a sexual thrill rises through him.

Father forgive me. I’ve not sin enough. I’m the ballast, charged with solemnity. Take in the cannibalistic flesh, drink of the blood. Praise them. Happy are those who bash the little ones upon the stones.

Lips of jasmine. The light has faded. The star burning out. Expanding. Withstanding. Commanding. Stellar view. She knows that suicide is just a symptom of feeling nothing worthwhile. The funeral ballerina twirling to the waves of the dirge.

Suicide is but a symptom of its dying grace. Left shattered upon the altar of our greed.

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