wayward-son-d

In my dreams darkness looms. A haven where the unholy worship a dying sky, and life is an endless suffering. A man sits on a ledge; an amber bottle in one hand, and a gun with a plan in the other. I don't know him. His eyes are ink black, on a powder white face, with raven black hair. He parts his lips; blood drips out, staining his ghostly lips. Skeleton hands stretch out, grasping a shadow throat. He is cold and weak with an overwhelming urge to claw out his wretched heart. Composure cracked, showing a cryptic past and a tear stained face revealing a tragic vision of his life: A young boy being skinned alive, praying for an en