Seeping through the window,
like wisps of melting snow,
the demon bitch from hell,
whose come to claim your soul,
to drag that pathetic thing,
down into the bowels of hell,
the price is pittance for what you stole,
for what you fornicated,
you vile piece of rotten meat,
farewell,
goodbye,
you’re fucked!
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perhaps fucked yet the question always looms: was it worth it? and more time than not, more times than I’d like to admit… the answer is… fuck, yeah. for hell that is being promised seems a walk in the park compared to the ever toxic conscience that so relentlessly gnaws on whatever remains are left of the heart that has been betrayed so many times that it knows not any more what is real, what isn’t, what is right, what isn’t… within it though, a glowing echo sings: fuck… yeah…
Twisted Roads - Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks 
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