galloping goblin
go through the glass door, follow the evil and rush. Rush, rush, rush. Rush to the core of clumsy castrated clouds. Clouds that melt. With fumes and fire.
A sweet lullaby
In the darkest of hours, ringing
Like an old metallic telephone,
Can you hear the lullaby?
In the vintage of void, of illustrated emptiness,
Of broken windows across the hall,
Of the cracks upon weathered glasses,
And the slithering lights
Flakes
Of fear
Tearing down
The layers of dust
Sleeping like a child, like a little dovey doo, Oh, it’s you
I have come to avenge.
