Barren, first, the golden nest. 
The budding breast.
Bloated with mystical, imaginary potential that pause in glory with thoughts of ghost, fled.
The ebbing, unknown wound. The disfigured prison of resonant debauchery; seeping through cracks, corroded with mold.

Blissfully ignorant insanity.
Misled prayers for sunshine in the hopeless, godless cathedral of rapid time.
Like a tsunami of death, a roaring river of blood, drowning the life out of all that was good.