#mcclaren-c

[de-morte]

I have a hunger for a world that does not exist, where the moon is blood-coloured and the hex of the only witch is in the air. I have a hunger for the quintessential, for branches that whisper cold winds. I have a hunger for hands that touch and heal the soul. I have a hunger for the sun to never rise, but to settle somewhere my home is not followed. I have a hunger to live within the fog. I have a hunger for immortal longings, for a love so passionate it shames the wolf howling the sky out of its passion. I hunger for a heart so hungry that its satiety of love is endless. I hunger for the paths that leave no footprints. I hunger for the essence of laughter in my Harlston, a veiled thoroughfare known only to her and to me.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

To exist is to survive the unfair echoes.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

And I still remain —as an afterthought nursing a crimson season of thunder; a vernal pulse curdling into autumn beneath the lunar palm; a fevered vision lodged within the ribs of extinction.

Channing M Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

What a formidable pair we make— where burden weds blood, and ruin, finding its reflection— calls it beloved.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

You were my celestial grief, a century-deep wound that would not unbury.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

I am the very definition of a lost sorrow that will not harm you.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

There he stands, with eyes that locked upon the hellfire that forged his sinew and soul. For only now — the inferno that created him — trembles at its own design.

Channing M// Vault of My Books

[de-morte]

and still I pressed my mortal pulse to the bone— as though devotion might exhume divinity from the ossuary of fallen flame... But the Heaven does not mourn its casualties. It forgets them.

Channing M// Vault of My Books