Such a bleak desolate land,
the sight that starts your day,
your thought that begins your pointless journey.
Each and every morning.
For each and every mourning.
Why feed your pessimism, with isolation?
Why numb your tranquil thoughts, with bitter cold memories?
As every moon passes,
you spend it in conflict of non-fiction.
Refusing to believe the ever essence of "truth".
Living in your world of peace and tranquility,
stifling your inner cries of torture and hatred,
are the only thing that keep you alive,
the only thing you call hope.
Competing for your dream.
Fighting for that righteousness you thirst for,
but only death can quench that thirst.
Now with your fire fed,
your wrongs righted,
your story complete.
You've awaken to Peter's presence.
and his hand directs you to the path you've searched.
To meet once again.
With the mourning's end...
let the night begin.
 
Copyright © noochwick, All Rights Reserved