A stranger doth post retreats A stranger doth post retreats from my door. To never be told, through the haze evermore. That one can claim the phallic runes, something that simply can be, without the need of gloom. Upon the tomb in which it scry, for a long time sense the world passes by, and within the psyche left unto the room, that is left to be filled by the mass of loons. Upon that the brain doth fall and slumber, wrought forth the fraught from which it numbered. Many can claim that it is to be soon, new born and cherubic, yet left to assume. upon that day, the day of the march. From with me we move, and it becomes a charge. That one whom acquitted, held at large, from within the time far from the way, upon the stranger retreating from the door, that day.A stranger doth post retreats by SeanMorte
within the world of heart and within the world of heart and fire, beyond the realm of hurt, desire. far beyond the crawling spire, within the veil unto the mire. Far beyond the dreams of lasting, within the realm, beyond your casting, into the place from which it's lasting, unto the dream within the fasting. Unto the things unto the liars, from within the wretched spires, so lost an longing within the fire, and lost unto the world of desire.within the world of heart and by SeanMorte
Doth heard the quote, that sooDoth heard the quoteDoth heard the quote, that soo by SeanMorte
, that soon did bore, from in the sprig of ever yore. How one can claim that it ensues, the life beyond the broken door.
How can one from left and lore, bequeathed an drenched into the scorn, from life to faith to ever yew. from here to there, and nevermore.
how can one simply be, the drenched as thus, shall never lead. and here we are behind the door, yet scorned and left, for evermore.
and yet it goes, into the lore, beyond the world, in which we roar, unto the life that shall consume, beyond the faith of nether lore.
neither time nor waste can show the score, from time to time we wait for more. yet soon we see under these floors, beyond the need forever more.
Tha Malicious tale, Of Dorothy Vale: BurlapThe Malicious tale, Of Dorothy Vale. BurlapTha Malicious tale, Of Dorothy Vale: Burlap by SeanMorte
Once upon a long time ago within the sleepy town of Dorothy Vale.
A child known as Marky was on his way to the outskirts of town. He was riding his bike across the gravely asphalt, constantly bumping as each inch of wheel met a new upheaval of rock. He was going to his new job at the old farm. His grandfather had pulled some strings, which allowed Marky the task of checking in on the animals around the farmland for a meager pay off. Marky was excited for this opportunity regardless. He was twelve years old, and had never had a job in which people actually expected him to be productive. In his childlike mind the thought of helping the adults seemed like a privilege more than work. So he eagerly strode faster and faster to the old farm, trying to show up right on time, to appease the other farm hands. Marky stopped suddenly, the wheels on his bike screeching as his breaks tightened. To Marky's left was an old cast iron fence. Beyond that was a