Wishful thinking from the heart of this Romantic soul
Sins of the flesh gleem from that of my aura
To like and feel for impossibilities always stop me in my tracks.
For what is it that we are supposed to do?
The purpose of our incapable sensations?
But what is love?
A deadly accessory to dispose of our spiritual infraction.
Promiscuity bleeds down our bodies like rain in a gutter. Utterly nothing when it comes down to it. Predispositioned to love in a dirty way.
Nothing deeper to consume us with feeling.
We are but empty buckets of useless organs.
No real emotion can make its way.
An influenza of passion to strike us dead.
Spiritually decayed we are to become.
A forbidden destiny will arive
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