Winds of fire and seas of ash.
This realm is mine and that is that.
I walk these plains as if worlds might collide.
Here I remain even once I have died.
For destruction is origin in somebody’s eyes.
And in the end I am but a heart box of tries.
Inventions that failed yet pointed to future.
Tear off my scars and leave me with a suture.
Identity pushed through to success.
Here and now I regret my insistance.
Cause when the bell tolls for the last time,
I will be joining in with its shrill chime.
Without a care for monsters clawing at walls.
Those beings putrid and lacking real balls.
So when chatter turns skies to pink.
I know that warm memories will be find in a drink.
Paradise in heresy sounds like a boon.
Its why I am counting all of these runes.
Markings from eons that long since have passed.
Meanwhile dead souls have completely crashed.
Lost a will that was never their own.
Mutterings about how son should phone home.
These items churn as if night comes from day.
Birth these statements once more but laced with decay!
Simon A Jackson - Writer 