By Cheyenne 2o19
(Special -Note )
There was a time as a society we didn’t talk about passing our bodies around as if they were no better than toilet paper for someone’s use. Discarding the life tricking forth as Gods reduced to excrement for our toilets.’ God ‘ help it if it survives left to be raised by illusions in fatherless
loveless homes without knowledge, insight, or foresight we are not prepared for… Where beauty is reduced to whatever outfit, the color of hair and make-up is purchased for the night, the idea of wealth bought as easy as Louis Vuitton. Where men find comfort and solace on the
down-low in each other’s arms. This being the dream of that renegade ( Aleister Crowley ) planned for our lives in the version of his demented concepts of a world ( Do whatever thy wilt ) Where ‘NO ONE ‘. Knows our ass from our elbows,never-the-less what love is.
Come, Ye, out of the hells gutter of his design by the illusions we are alive… We are no more alive than wet clothes hung out to dry no wants to wear anymore…In need of the revelation resurrecting us back to the eternal life of our creation,