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Engulfed by PainShallowed of an ocean's crest, left buried in sand to neutralize red waters, a seal tied directly upon your chest; left rotting you are by three young daughters.
Within a home of dry soap and marble, bled heavily they did by your very hand, an evening of maelstrom to enrage their minds further; a plot was sliced thickly to bury you into land.
Countless months of torture to bring about meaning, a thought to envelop the darkness of man, one morning to slaughter you without knives or a 'reason;' to the beach you brought them, much singing they began.
Hours and winds to thrust the clock further, lying down you had slumbered and forgotten your reign, a cavern to empty and bury you without screaming; widen your eyes to darkness, breathe within their pain.
The Factory of Structured IndividualsA factory cleansed of processed famine, coddled and strangled are the victims' flesh, injections to deplete a sense of mortality, each body is bloodied to maintain and refresh.
The walls composed of plastered infants, in orange lakes were they drowned to preserve, strung along are young ones minus morals and values; each one marches bound intestine to nerve.
Throughout this facility of clear intentions, such bodies are stripped of their very lives, a coldness sinks deep within its shutters, peeled off are their souls without white knives.
Melted with plastic of children's bones, they are birthed by cycles of murder and remorse, blue blooded and vicious to price such a treasure; from here they are bonded, from here is their source.
EnslavedWithout the fallen are burned children's eyes, their mouths filled with water inside their heads, a spell of dark envy to bind hearted chains; furthermore they are cast amongst the dead.
Black suns of the cold to enslave codes of torture, spiraled mirrors of crones to bleed through their wills, a lie of soft walls to execute the weary; the numbers climb high as it silently kills.
Their nights are days to all who whisper, a crystal of moons to swallow their worth, not a word of regret escapes their pink flesh; a finalized project shall be to end birth.
Them, Myself, and YouDo the candles speak of silver, do they reign of a malicious cause, open your soul to the window of slaughter; appreciate their many feats and flaws.
Spiders which have mocked the dead, shriveled yet fallen beneath the springs, beings of white faces to capture the lengthy; strip them of jewels, burn alive their things.
Listen to you they shall not, but instead a visit to the chamber they take, an evening of voices plagues the rain; child, you are a certain fake.
Ignored them you have, placid one, your eyes stench of a voice never seen, I shall strike you with a glove of iron; pry open your eyes and plead to dream.
Above the Blind and Beneath the SightedUnderneath the rusted irons, but molded between the caskets of love, a cage of death sings west in dark waters; the wastes contain a curse from above.
Their bodies float as night perils forth, above the flames but beneath one star, to each their own a separate portion; a dreaded one cleans them from beyond afar.
Lay wasted in towards a river of flesh, a being dares silence itself to sleep, the Shadows of Where expect your secrets, give them of nourishment, for 'tis it they keep.
Of nightmare or glory do the bodies stay clean, their eyes of glass move not an inch, for the nose of red sings with their screeches; bloodied rags are brought from a pinch.
He Who Stole From UsDespair of a nightfall shattered by silver, through oceans we rise of bloodied hands, moans of the dead whisk mortally past us; time has our clearing, let us reclaim the lands.
Stolen from us the grounds which thrived, the grasses blackened with a wisp of plaster, the eves which were have frozen without us; 'tis all the works of another master.
Nights without darkness have plagued our beings, drowned in our wills beneath the lead, revenge shall curse him with a jolt of nightmares; a demon of somber shall reclaim his head.
To him we glare with a simple reason, the moonlight hazel fairs our skin and eyes, this childish mortal has begun to run from us; let us skin him and declare his lies.
To Thou We WalkTrembled cauldrons of the bloodied, we speak to you from our banished homes, a night of falls and journeys strikes you; to you we walk, for we are drones.
Cloaked heavily in our guidance, dark, we travel forth to claim your eyes, an eve without rest bestows our shivers; quiet your mouth, we know of your lies.
Twice past the Mountain of Desert's Clearings, once towards but last into the mud, our journey nears, but far we remain; towards the end of daylight we witness blood.
Organs of the betrayed weaklings, they tumble down with gallons of red, a mighty waterfall of death runs by us; mixed in between, a child's head.
Into your palace we storm with magick, through the lights we send forth the war, a moment or two of chanting blinds you; a slay of black stains the marble floor.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More