Portrait کے بول

Knelt and bowed take the hands of sliced wrists wearing thorned bracelets of purity crumbling within the walls while my bittersweet spine sparkles waiting extending for the child falling into the arms dragging back to the trenches draining into the weakness with the eyes of the serpent peeling towards the heart that never releases past the veins of darkness bleeding beyond the flesh of a soul wallowing in mist with voices wailing whispers of sickness that creep further than the echoes of sweetness lingering beneath dead skin torn by the claws of an infant drowning in the smell of innocence suffocated by preceding separation reaping a new beginning