Unabated wicked tempest have been stampering havoc throughout a feeble stand. Cruel wind howls and horribly. The unusual intermittence of disaster have been twitching darkly in its prejudicial sinister, A scorn unevadingly perpetual, screeching, and all too remorseless in its undeviated path of wreck as it have been a rattle of mounting ill.
How shall feebleness be akin to strength to merit such formidable terror? And yet, failure is not the end, mocks the darker precipice.
Ravishing frenzy as its beastly vigor whacks mercilessly, cumulative to the point of irresolute damage.
Is it so, a divine recklessness or is it impartiality how such the feeble are neglected, so as I once thought? How could I, a wounded beast be ravaged more by my own involuntary reflex of survival?
By what resolution? By what severance?
I am in this lingering death wallow still. Drench in bask under the hollowed propensities. Requiem, am I not marred too long? Will it be in the proximity of what end?
THESE I BELIEVE, INEVITABLY IS UNSPARINGLY WEAKENING, YET THROUGH THIS DESPICABLE FEEBLENESS, THE DIFFERENCE AND SURVIVAL IS DEPENDENT BY WHAT SPARKLE MAKES THE FEEBLE STANDS. RESILIENCY, OUTWARDLY CANNOT BY MEASURE PROPORTIONATE WITH THE INNER GRASP.
I AM WASTED IN THE GRAVE.
I AM STALLED YET NONE TRULY WASTED.
When will be liberty? It’s not a matter of time it is a matter of perspective, and divine principles.
I am in the grave yet in prolific discoveries.