The battle for your sight

Catastrophe....

A smile whispers, lambient silk flows from the voice of an angel that dismounts from their high horse

The angel prospered, do not wear your suffering, It isn't a trophy.

The form is reconciled with an affirmitive need to grasp

An essence that is clouded by an intuitive instinct

to last

Mahogony timber, and a rat that placed last, A moment where shadows and light combined for a task, and lovely dangers present contorted faces constructed with a blast of past

My managment is a controlling force that lacks knowledge, and the strength of presence diminishes before my very sight, a cold moon reflects the stars of the night, into the swamp I take shelter and my blanket is fright.

Paper boats draw near from a pond very near, as they are trampled by the creatures that lurk in here, Ink splots morph from indistinctive to friends, now the darkness has accepted a once fear ridden man to a fear providing hand.

Catastrophe...