Patters shatter to recreate.
Madness.
That encapsulates.
A new portion of the palpable
Universe.
Opens up its pain.
And It paints.
The momentary disdain.
For when stars start crashing down.
To starved valleys
to show their cores:
It's time to convey upon
the masses to make
a better show.
No more erosion.
Allowing corruption's
patterns.
To keep showing up the scorn.
Coming down below
the bellows...
The striking Sea, fiercely,
punches up the side halls
waking up battalions,
ready to tear up flesh after
remorse.
There's no better way to choose
but to remain vigilant
of the unchosen.
They're unloosened.
Turning around the clasp,
of the grasp?
to wake up already
The Machine.
As we see it stir...
The pot of unscrewed senses
and tainted moralities.
It's a stew that burns out
the centre of its bases.
As it predicts
the same turns on the
known table board,
we all continue to use
to pretend that noise
isn't coming from inside
Our Home
It's the same fate as
the careless toads.
Not realizing
that boiling bubbles rise
as they drift down
to turn their lights off.
For nothing stops
The Conundrum.
A nagging feeling
that tells me that.
The eyes of every child
come already shadowed
before The Fall.
In a world where choices
make us lose our valour
and laugh at our Gods.
No other way around it
but to find the cracks
in the screen above.
Cause' a cause will strive
and strike when moments notice
the efforts of lonely apes,
too tired of keep screaming
at The Moon to take
The Scorching Sun away.
And furthermore.
Let's try to find us
some more proper
Messiahs.
For The World.
Comes arising.
Hungrier.
Than Ever Before.
And dying galaxies...
Or tender quasars...
shan't be enough.
To fill up its gullet,
we'll have to try
our hardest.
For more the Pain shall shower us
with scalding Love.
An honoured guest arrives
breaking up the window's locks.
And as we feel the creeping breeze
hugging up The Manor.
There's no better thought to have
than to remain
happier with our choices,
than we would've
all our Remorse.
Let's find each of us a lovely
reflection...
A parallel plane
aparent
to be transparent.
A shock of honest intents.
A symphony
of regrets
never told
but to the corners
of all air.
Now,
The Crimson Star Rises.
And our criteria collapses.
The River, if ready to full the flow,
already starts The War.
Let's set up The Table.
For our guests shall arrive soon.
And make sure the scenic views
are as ready as tantalizing.
Let's up open up
The Fiery Skies.
For It's coming down to breathe.
Let's all prepare The Feast.
Pray among ourselves
to sleep.
And hope, nevermore,
that it satisfies
The Beast.
