Plaguewhore
Mist and Fog. ...And I will make the dust return to your faces. You will perish like men of ignorance. Pesten hoer. Devils seed. I am blood, I am soil. I know the ever impulsive falsehood. We drag our heels through the echoes of Winter, reminding ourselves of a regretful past. Blinded by your great vulgarity. Persued by a tempest downtrodden. Struggling to remain bouyant in your filth. Forever buried under judicious reflections. I am the dying starfields. Blood-borne demise. We drag our heels through the echoes of Winter, reminding ourselves of a regretful past. Peripheries frost-laced, like dying clouds. Casting the skyline with our decadence and glut
Submitted by Celtic Frost — Jun 18, 2026
A mouthful of gravel, another fucking dead weight. The further we travel, the shade is near but the heat is great. A fathomless distance, fire dances in the air. I long for the cool shelter, before I piss my fluid being away. Grazed knees and bloodied palms, the hot rocks pick at my flesh. Crawling to the refuge, that seems to refuse me. And we gather, the sky has opened. I'll hide in the shade, where it's safe for me. Laying on blisters and dead soil. The shade beyond my grasp. The rain fails to extinguish my skin. I will lay here, dying. Celestial realms my final comfort. My shallow lungs collecting warm sand.
Submitted by Celtic Frost — Jun 18, 2026