Haunt the Proud.
I have died 600 hundred times before
& through-out the pain there you where;
the heir of serenity preached, spring fourth a trinity of able souls
and although I have been shown how to sleuth, I'm told only a leader will survive;
so in the stronghold
do what you will to stay with me.
Fore I'm an elder whose boy inside has witnessed enough to haunt the proud
...with miss taught & misguided blueprints to an unforgiving, gangrenous world.
Here the moon is black with no reflection;
& perfection...cherished a thousand memories in the stark caverns of hells kitchen.
I'm waiting in the caverns, the cracks shall soon be sewn into my body
& during my issuance of God
the day shall become a small cut of heaven,
fire from the sun burns the death of this village away with each abyss in the sky.
Angel's sing songs bringing a tear that reposes
inside my eyelids pocket.
Memories of a life endured & I die with a twinkle tonight.
However tomorrow I will raise again...
the droplets of my reality, sliver through the leftovers of me.
These memories & libel wounds, scabbed over and reopened
like fractured bones on wintry mornings.
601 but I'm no older, I don't behold anything I've not seen
I don't sense pain I've not visited before.
I'm the fly on the wall at all your suppers.
everyday I die & at vesper I dine on humanities bane;
over the years
...you've had all of me.