Crimson lays
a fang across
The Halls...
as they get
tinted
with hues of
the bones crackling
above a mighty
Fire.
Sensations of
dagger
under the skin
as the metal
gets to burn
nicely.
Eyes wide open
and gazing
while interpreting
the same
song and dance,
as before
and today.
It's the sane DNA
of success
to know how
to put
the fingers
upon The Beacon
when It calls.
A mark
of worship
between
brethren;
is a parallel,
as brother
kills brother
under the rain...
And The Stone
keeps crumbling
from all the
sand
cursing
through its ancient
veins...
It's the Earth's
Birthday
and never before
have we ever
listened to its
Prayers.
What it takes...
To see the sun
once again
showering us with
Life
instead of
Pain.
As she
evaporates,
she becomes
lighter than the air.
That escapes
Her breaths
lost unto the breeze...
And the ice will never
come back
for us.
For our book has been written
by hard-headed
silhouettes.
Reincarnated
into puppets
made to make
Machiavellian feelings
turn to Evil,
into Flesh...
And now.
The Champagne tastes
as dirty
as our
Last
Serenade
And embedded
are our dreams
into the future faces
yet to come...
Maybe, they'll get to see the day.
Maybe, they'll get to love the night.
Maybe, it will all go for the better.
Maybe... They'll leave us for good.
.
.
.
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tirada a su Suerte
Muerta sin azar...
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