DARK PLAYERS
The flute of the crown-stranded crowns of blood and the smell of rancid airs around him ...
Sheltering an expressionless frozen expression that conveys a typical savage grin ...
Upright stands staring wildly for prey for the lust of hell's appetite with hell ...
Sweep of the wind darkened the vicious figure of the moral destroyer of the world dissidents ...
In the no man's alleys in the sprinkling by him the melt of blood with the unnamed human bones ...
Chopping and slicing skin passionately during a party of deprivation ...
Noda is no longer a sin and murder is no longer karma when the hungry desire blinds the eyes ...
And the cry of death is the chant of death dance at the show in front of the head ...
The night is still the same and hysterical grief is still the mystery of travel donor stories ...
Legs without bodily or scattered bone rotten bones for her treasures ...
Sleeping on a sheet of human skin that warms the cruel figure and the sʌdis is happy ...
And darkness still hides him in an unspoken law of logic ...