Scorpions

Snakes whisper from my Slithering tongue, an abracadabra made in the pompous of my ego, formulated of my animateness insignia. A clatter rattles me by various replicas of arachnid scorp's burrowing in the den of liquidator slayer's. A backing dropping off in practice farewells me for the gloaming's rituals belief uncorroborated and banked up in a be-wafted pestilence. As an invasive culprit thrills for the decadence of atrophied, with malice to associate in the effect of carmine being spilled, as I spin a 13, waging a bet on the Gamble and an attempt at a price to tingle stimulation in the activation of third eye mystics. A voodoo keen to whisk a hex death upon the godless propagate that is of no use for my spiritual panjandrum, as my tally man forges a taking profit to gain my yield. Seemingly so, as I am stung with a possession that obsesses me, in the depths of hell with my lighthouse I seed, and the villains of my heart making a subception, undermining  in a dream by a vast turf of lucidness. Like a priest of the demonic culture, I reef your heart.