No testament of the castigations that tainted her delicate body,
and left her soul to parch.
Her lips never evinced the secrets they were to engrossed in telling lies,
and with that they portrayed her imbibing death to her mouth. But they didn't know that she was already dead
A stony clout to the head and you're cascading onto the floor.
Although your eyes are sealed and you are transfixed in flawless caliginosity you still manage to perceive the pain that absconds your body,
and hastens away screaming all your secrets to death.
The pain abandons you and now you're only left with cicatrices,
and they are the only vestige that death has ever avenged you,
and at the same time they are the only sign that you are alive.
You are alive because you can feel the liquid steaming out of your nose.
You can feel the voices amplify and pound there demented little fists on the inside of your stomach exacting to escape,
and you can feel the heat of the flames while you burn in hell.
I would really love some constructive criticism.