A Fragment of Carafe.

(Entangled by Allegory, @Scaphions) Oh, inevitable lust. Oh, prophesied prayers. These hands scrutinise the tattered parchment of lament. Approach hither, where the blood depleted along with desire. To fill something into the shrieking flesh and suffering lungs. A sacred sonnet shall never falter, because the sword still waits to be able to trample. A holy rose remains within a chalice—seems attempting to move the rood. A mortal that no longer decays, Jacmorte.