ToothyPeas

If silk could melt to drip down arms and goosebumped legs in scarlet rivers, serpentine, it seems only right that the sky should burn as well. Like roses heaped upon a stage, cloaked in tumultuous applause, the end will fall in exultation. Shall we stand upon the shore and taste the salt upon our lips, basking in the last breezes before the Breaking? These last days are a ball, a promenade of bliss, sublime devastation, a eulogy of memory. Shiva, ever the gentleman, asks for one last dance.