suffewingowo

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Corpse

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i'm so relieved that you made it another day. all that's left is to rest. the future is uncertain but you're here! you're here aren't you? just hold onto me. the ones that say it will all be alright have no reason to lie to us. i'm scared but i love you. may tomorrow be kinder to you

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ITS GREAT LAKES AWARENESS DAY!!!!!

On this excellent day, be aware that this is the largest group of freshwater lakes in the world, covering over 95,000 square miles and reaching depths of over a thousand feet. They are beautiful freshwater seas.

Also when you die in these lakes, the very cold, oxygen-poor conditions at the bottom preserves you perfectly for all eternity. You will not rot and nothing will eat you. You will exist for as long as the Great Lakes do. Many shipwrecks still have the crew on board. Be Aware.

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hmph.... my height is NOT "clocky" , its ☆*regal*☆and indicative of my divine blood (￣┰￣*)

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Filtered blood through crimson chalice.

Fill the castle, drown the palace.

Drown now in desire, want.

Suffer blight and slowly rot.

Day is strange and feeling sorrow.

Surely it will pass, tomorrow.

But why recurring, strangeness brain?

Why the mind cause myself pain?

Carve the corpse? No, please, beyond that.

Old afflictions regularly combat.

Carve the mind with smoke and liqour?

Doesn't make the day end quicker.

Suffer your own mortal sins, deer.

Suffer for your failings, feel fear.

Fuck yourself, and beg me, die.

I will blight thee, watchful eye.

Drown the mind in more than knowledge.

Crystal tower, silver cottage.

Tie my hands behind my back.

Collar sinch and leash then snap.

Perhaps the day should be more long.

For longer I could compose song.

Perhaps, instead, it should transpire.

That I ignite the onyx pyre.

Should now Silence rule the day?

Visçera come out to play?

Dance in blood, and corpses revel.

Cities burn and countries level.

Maybe teeth sharp though they are, aren't.

Maybe I should hone my heart.

Maybe you should run and hide.

Before it's you I've deigned to die.

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Harrison Wood Hsiang

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Where roses bloom, and blood is spilled.//Where needs are met, where wants are filled.

Where love is found, grown on the stem.//Where light is found, between them.

Where dew is cold, and strikes the sun.//Where resting is, til resting done.

Where earth is soft, and grass is green.//Where all sensation feels like dream.

Where death abates, though death fulfilled.//Where patiently it waits be willed.

Where day is short, and night is long.//Where always you can hear this song.

Where life is lived, and love is shared.//Where no intrusion there is dared.

You will find us, there in gloom.//In springtide love, where roses bloom.

love you so much 💜🩷

cant wait to be in your arms <3

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It had been 3 years since I last saw Rupert Walsh, and judging from the state of his house – which I now stood before, stepping into the courtyard and gazing at the centuries old architecture – life had not been kind to my dear friend.

A crown of dark vines and thorns covered the exterior, a pestilence grown deep into the foundations. Cracked bricks, windows smeared with dust and dirt, weeds and tangled roots that grasped at my heels as though the property wished to bury me with it. A noble manor now beaten into sordid disrepair.

A cold wind bellowed, urging me toward the house.

At the front door an elderly gentleman greeted me, one whom I had not met before. Clad in crumpled suit and tie, he introduced himself - Sylvester, currently the only remaining staff at Walsh's manor.

The rest of them, he said, had long since left.

I asked where I might find Walsh.

"The master is never far. I'm sure you'll find him soon." He said, with something that might have been a smile or a grimace.

When pressed for answers, the cryptic butler simply smiled and walked away.

Restraining the urge to grab the old fool and force an answer, I entered the house.

Once, this hall had been host to extravagant parties ; for the rich and regal to gather and gossip. Once there were warm candlelights and soft music. A banquet worth more than a king could provide. A symphony of aromas, perfumes and cigars paid for in gold.

Now grey light filtered in, dulling the already dismal interior. Moth-eaten furniture and leaking tiles. Stagnancy hung in the air like smog. Something scuttled away into the shadows as I entered the corpse house.

Given time, this place would no doubt become overgrown, buried, and forgotten.

What tragedy must have befallen my friend?

Despite Sylvester's directions, or lack thereof, I knew where to look for Walsh. He was a workaholic, and never strayed far from his office.

Shutting the door behind me, now submerged in the manor's quiet atmosphere, I entered further in through the rotted, damp bones of Walsh's Manor.

I would find him. I must.

For 2 weeks ago I had recieved a letter addressed from him. Our first communication in an age.

It was a short message, with the address enclosed, that simply read, 'Morgan, I do not wish to die alone. Please find me.'

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Staying with his lordship for awhile, all hail the Highlord Henry

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