Dark Vent

Lured by angel fuck promises his taunt red smeared muscles sheen with chained dog spittle as he stands bugfuck-staring, with hands turned to his empty god, he drops his once tongue dragged blade, soft light reflecting from the candles on his malice shrine, scattered objects like a visual unbreakable code; to the left, dainty knee-high socks, razor striped and alone, to the right, torn leaves of stolen books. Shaking he turns to the only mirror he owns and examines own fleshed carved rants scabbing his chest- important words given to him by blue, black and overchrome visions that came so quick and so strong his body the available page before the intense cold magic left him