The clouds wept tears from the heavens the night the sorrows bore our fruit.
I laboured through the hours, forgotten of my own accord.
The self-exile I complacently placed myself within the walls of echoed the trials of a generation's pain.
The pain of all I lost in the end being the only justice upon which I could bare to foresee the past.
The only triumphs we have yet to face being the chaos of this world -
this century lost within the cries of battle; the echoes of war in this fantasy.
My eyes held onto the blood of all my sorrows,
the tears of my hatred pulsating beneath this rotten hide.
And who am I to judge ye?
For how else could one escape the past -
the echoes of insecurities and displeased murmurs.
The senses wild with the sounds of desertion and devastation -
the pure meaningless insensibilities.
Do you realize the pains suffered within your name?
The volumes of pain with your hatred, your heart, your core of being.
Yet the love overthrows all else -
If only the love were known.
