someone be my bloody valentine already

church of phocks

Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail / The sky cracked its poems in naked wonder, / That the clinging of the church bells blew far into the breeze / Leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder / Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind, / Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind, / An’ the poet and the painter far behind his rightful time / An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.
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▲8 | reblog | 3 months ago

jessiemac likes this
caravaning said: shit its 1.20am too late
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mermaid-grenade said: i volunteer
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