Phases of regression creep past knowing. Vices of a solemn heart stir here, bestowing traces of past footsteps behind the gaze of doubting eyes. The stench of impression sewn into the fabric of tomorrows leaves hope waning in fogs of unworthiness. What defense exists in premeditation… other than its source in trepidation? Wherein rules the shadows (Light’s foes); therein hangs the gallows, looming high to choke from life all inherent love.
When all the darkness rears its form, cast your net above.