Watcher from on high.
Peering down through this black sky.
Seeker of some truth.
Devoid of time or a segment called youth.
Study what lies below.
Upon these altars rot shall grow.
Sifted just like sand.
Heresy calls outsiders to wear a brand.
Of fallacy and erasure.
What lies here is that which made ya.
Subjugation of old may.
Spiralling out of the same faded day.
Wearer of obsidian robe.
Saunter down your forgotten road.
Parasite of sense.
Forever speaking in past tense.
Barbarian in roasting sand.
Upon new flesh will remain this brand.
Torturous and raw.
Betraying all those who were born poor.
With knives against a throat.
Upon this hatred they hope you choke.
For butchering a thrill.
By using a rusted hammer drill.
Of venomous retort.
Grinding fame until they wish to abort.
To free of all this mess.
Begging for end to this compacted stress.
Silhouette with no form.
Were you actually ever truly born?
Fraying all the ties.
All you have and speak are lies!
Simon A Jackson - Writer 