Breed

The call of patience. The disrupting image of comfort reaches forth in a psychosomatic array of thought. Towards this time I see the unfolding of a stallion ridden by a Daemon. The ripping, searing, touch of steel cascades down the spine as flesh smiles in wounds. Mind is gold and the trinket is turning off, the swaying begins again with a fluster of bones, dry, dead, ground to a pulp by a termination of life. Trill is eaten by Gods' Angels, and blue is the colour of soul. Disease of mind takes control in a display of anger, the grinding steel erupts in flame as piercing flesh eats at peace...The anticipation of death is once more an elation of fear. To climb, to grasp, the gripping once lost is now caught as the image of beauty is not found in gold. The chaos of the jungle spreads and claws its way, as humanoids plan out the future by destroying what's here. The life of death creates stone cold flesh that's driven by a diabolical throbbing. To see, to be, to touch, the outside is what I am and am not... 'I am everything' said the wolf as metamorphosis set into place an image of man. 'What colour is this toad? And why does it smell like chimpanzee chocolate walls.' This discrepancy unfolds as the viewfinder unlocks secrets of the past to guide and secure this life.