Surrealism, warped realities, conveniently altered,

So that the bad days are painted over in a layer of gold,

You claw apart each delusion with cracked nails,

Staining the paper crimson with the blood of dreams you killed.


God hates me as much as I hate myself,

I don't care about him, it was you I was worshipping,

The bleeding shrine is closing.

The sky pours down its translucent, crystal blood,

I guess the celestial bullet-wounds never heal.


Daydreams have morphed into something lucid,

Their code etched across a gravestone in scarlet letters,

The granite-grey bleeds black-red through hieroglyphic scars,

I am no longer able to subconsciously escape,

So I will bring down this mental hell,


For I will kill this mortal abyss of flames.

The End

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