Life is like a wheat field.
In the beginning we are fertilized and sowed, from there begins hope.
We grow and in our unity we are golden and beautiful.
We live, and our time must eventually come into an end.
In the end we will all be reaped by the cold the stark sickle of death.
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Blasphemy
PoetryAnd you, my lover, or should I say my forgotten. My nuisance, my migraine, my nightly night terrors. You haunt me in my sleep, in my dreams, and even in my mind you haunt. I must purge you, and purify myself as you have rotten me to my very core. I...
