eyes like dead comets(caught before they could finish the job), pupils like captured pits of nemesis' envy and balance. he was a reputable man with reverence in his step, a holy preacher that made girls fall in front of his feet as if to repent their sins(they were only going to make them worse("tell me he's free tonight, god," one of them said)). getting it on in some shitty inn at three in the morning, the devilish pull on his tie that made angels shudder and break and splinter into gold tinted glass(they always liked putting up a show), the careless drawing of lips across bodies and the dips in waists and chests–it is his livelihood. a filthy heathen, the only church he went to on sundays were bodies of sweet virgins, ones that really didn't deserve to be deflowered by him. eyes of shattered glass, he rose as he fell and proved to be an entropy in the making; beautiful when put together, a malevolent mess when scattered over tartarus.
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paraphernalia
Poetrypretentious poetry. FOREWARNING: this was written over three years. my style changes dramatically, as does everything else. quality of pieces varies.
