May the might be in the light, the beyond of east or west.
As the faith lies within a broken bayonet, an ending put best.
This being the final say, tomorrow is thought about.
The what of tomorrow, the who? The maybe, the if.
Should it never come, none, no one but those left would know, know it so.
As one door closes another opens some do say, but at times, when panic is born, all doors are blown asunder, hope driven all but fully under, and in the back of young, impressionable minds.
Rosca MarxAnd with a new name came the ultimate alleviation of some gross unspoken responsiblity.
Rosca MarxThe art of writing is not unlike the act of screaming. A constant flow of otherworldly emotions with tempos high and hymns low. All to amount to some purpose not so loudly spoken: the whisper of change the heart of a writer weeps to reap.
Rosca MarxWalk me, foreign valley
Hear us wail, know our call,
Kill me, the troubled nomad, war torn and hungry
Quell the sun and all its tyranny.
Break the day, so to say and slay,
the snow and all we know,
Let come the horror we’ve been counting on.
Be it the fault together, of our catalyst and our progeny.
Not unlike a maggot turned fly by time, the mace was given wings.
Rosca MarxAs the man left and became gone the fault wailed after him, heartbroken. Yelling back at him all the ways he and it belonged to one another.
Rosca MarxThe man 'Jericho' wondered if the thing would get to the smoke it wanted. If it was as hungry as he was. Wondered if the monster would be willing to share.
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