His Epitaph.
herein lies the ruins of the boy who would give everything for love; the boy who would let love burn him and drive a stake through his heart. whether his selflessness and willingness to stake it all on this round of Russian Roulette in the game of love will be known to the rest of the world does not matter. may he rest in peace.
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as the sun sets and the crescent moon hangs brightly in the night sky, the ice cold flesh wriggles to life and rises from the musty integuements of the tomb. a creature of the night, a creature of darkness, a creature of sin - but we all are sinners, whores, shallow in more ways than one, so who has the right to judge but God? with what measure ye meets, it shall be measured to you in return. - a creature who drains the pure warmth of love into his veins but always awakes from his eternal slumber hungry for more. knowing only how to take and not to give. knowing only to fulfill the carnal cravings and you ask what of its heart for every living creature ought to have one? to quote C.S Lewis, 'Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.' If it had a heart that's what it would be ice cold - unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.
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last night we toasted to the greater past, and the greater future. whoever said that the present is a gift is sadly mistaken, fuck the asshole who came up with that - at least for now. the greater past can only be looked upon with nostalgia and longing. but the greater future - that can be looked forward to with hope and burning desire. and in that hope, we made a toast over baccardi rum to the beautiful stars and stripes - with everything that it stands for.
herein lies the ruins of the boy who would give everything for love; the boy who would let love burn him and drive a stake through his heart. whether his selflessness and willingness to stake it all on this round of Russian Roulette in the game of love will be known to the rest of the world does not matter. may he rest in peace.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
as the sun sets and the crescent moon hangs brightly in the night sky, the ice cold flesh wriggles to life and rises from the musty integuements of the tomb. a creature of the night, a creature of darkness, a creature of sin - but we all are sinners, whores, shallow in more ways than one, so who has the right to judge but God? with what measure ye meets, it shall be measured to you in return. - a creature who drains the pure warmth of love into his veins but always awakes from his eternal slumber hungry for more. knowing only how to take and not to give. knowing only to fulfill the carnal cravings and you ask what of its heart for every living creature ought to have one? to quote C.S Lewis, 'Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.' If it had a heart that's what it would be ice cold - unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
last night we toasted to the greater past, and the greater future. whoever said that the present is a gift is sadly mistaken, fuck the asshole who came up with that - at least for now. the greater past can only be looked upon with nostalgia and longing. but the greater future - that can be looked forward to with hope and burning desire. and in that hope, we made a toast over baccardi rum to the beautiful stars and stripes - with everything that it stands for.
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