THE HARBINGER OF SECRETS

10325344_507068336064175_6694291280011412587_nThroughout ages and pages a man of forceful hand did lay the ground work for another’s endless work. Telling tales of youth over food with a ready fork.

Endless wrath of a man born from luck or mere design. Those before understood not the pledge, yet so inclined.

Many gods gathered to infuse torment to his soul in the shapes of shadows…and man. The course of winds did blow from blood of war to scar skin by an earthly hand.

From Atlas and from pole to pole, many mocked and sacrificed youth to bring mutation. Against the day and culmination of dreams of lovely things and slavery of nations.

Upon a Rock, he mused between the lies of elders and cruel justice of pontiffs and power thirsty men. The One in the heavens did laugh and promised wrath against the organism called “sin”.

What fondness to know the heart that can be helped or hurt? Blood drains and bones remain…long forgotten relics in the dirt.

This soul in pages gone, as loveless beauty races to and fro. Selfish men and mimes gave signs from death to dope.

Candid faces brings about happiness and pure with graces. Upon the screen are smiles at things obscene as the heart races.

Secrets came from both the evil and the good. Selling ones’ soul for craft and forget payment of blood.

Disease and death riddles minds from since peaceful streams did flow. Murder at day, and fornication at night under heaven as moon did glow.

Knives collide from forth the hands of lust with bullets of war. Lions wait for weakness to even the score.

Good is the tapestry, yet woven within is a thread of red devoted to art. Fascination of the One that balances all things within the heart.

Brothers are kings, holding secrets of most hidden things. Fancy omens give flight to the fearless in dreams.

Eyes spring forth from the forest and trees, as leaves blow in the frigid breeze. Melody of mind and beating blood while soul is at ease.

And what to say to the dealer of death that exists in two places at one time? Who supplies clouds of grief to make one drunk with wine.

A postcard unto forever, this lonely man does send. A content life to lay down and carried in the wind.

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