he is some sort of ancient rune , the quiet malevolence of freezing to death. jerry-can ambrosia offered in this place , where tragedy is in every chipped floorboard &. south gothic preacher boys hanging upside down from poles like crucifixes. altars filled with dirty money &. coiled , sour grapevines. he must have been a god once , with how these worshippers give him everything to him. ❝ i didnt call you over ❞ the panic in their voice was clear to taste as their lips wrap around the wine glass , taking a long drink. this temple of grace that had been burnt down to the ground &. angels left their halos on the coat rack at the door. a welcomed step off the path into the endless maw of pleasure , pilfered from the seeds of pomegranates. the only thing that worships anymore are the deep , dark things that crawl from the spaces between soul &. heart. ❝ uh you look really good tonight. ❞ choking on the tightening halo that they have made into a noose , aching to be drunker as they sit in the stole of a confessional box.
( ❤ / @irregvlation )