White lilies painted crimson, maroon, and black to suit their prophetic fates. Dances with the night oft’ prove fatal. Will dawn come only for me? Is Winter truly the death or only the rest of maturation? What is love more than a tingly feeling? A fantasy world where women are swept off their feet and men are hailed as heroes. Heroes that claim the throne from tyranny and incest, yet surround it with corpses of those before them. An endless cascaded cycle of death, tears and lust. The open grave looms ahead concealing the razor blade. The Ultimate Sacrifice. Sweet Sorrows touch the flesh, watch it ripple over time and give moments a human form to see out of, and feel from. To feel the unnecessary pain he causes, to understand the torment of each breath we draw, to know how it hurts to smile or laugh, or even cry now.

By Suicidal Piety

I became part of the Wasteland at the age of fourteen... at the age of seventeen I decided to write about it. And thus... here I am.