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Liziantus-MarantusOffline

    • Profile picture of Atticus Abbey
      Silent Ones

      𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓝𝓪𝓽𝓬𝓱𝓮𝔃 𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓼 𝓸𝓻 𝔀𝓪𝓲𝓵 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓸𝓷𝓮𝓼, 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓹𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓾𝓷𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝓾𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓭𝓮𝓮𝓹-𝓼𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓭 𝓭𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮...

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      Crimsin wrote a new post

      dread

      tis a bloody moon I seelicking its lips, the darkness tasting memy soul to weep unknownno one knows my tortured heartwith vacant stares they watchmy flesh to cry out to no availhell doesn't desire the guiltymy purified soul will...

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      Crimsin wrote a new post

      sense

      fear confounds on hallowed grounds I hear hollow soundsinstruments of destruction moving around with a bloodlustmy mind blocks them out so my prayers can ascendpushing past demonkind when God wants to be left alonepraying he keeps his instruments of...

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      • Well, this makes me think of a fallen angel, caught in the dilemma of righteousness and vengence. By the grace of God, perhaps, yet there is an underlying energy here too. I like the whirlwind of thoughts going on here. I can sense your struggle through your words, quite easily. Well expressed Crimson.

        • hello dearest Styxian good evening you know how it is as a writer and you have something on your mind and even if you don’t really want to you have to get it out… thank you I deeply appreciate your interpretation it’s just how my mind works…I guess this goes along the lines of serial killers they always say they are doing the work of God and really who is to say they are wrong? ❤️

      • Powerfully penned, Brenda. Excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.

        Damian

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      Stone Cold Abbey

      The stones of the abbey, cold and still.A shrouded shadow moves, unseen, unheard.Holding secrets deep, upon a lonely hill.Where once the holy, now the lost are stirred. The bells are silent, their song forever done.Where peace is broken, and no...

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      Play By The Rulebook

      The door creaked, a complaint from a throat that had seen too many winters. A kind of chill that went straight to the marrow, a cold spot, drop in the air. With a sliver of moonlight, thin as a...

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