No matter what.



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I.

"under a thousand swords made of sin
and horrid paper crowns,
i see a putrid, dying crow
dancing while its body drowns.

for it sees a black door made of worms
and shattered, painted bones;
while i see the blood of my brethren,
a mass of dying sons.

under a burning, berotten sheet of empires and prose,
i see a 'roach wearing a king's crown,
covered in the blood of those
who laugh beneath its golden gown.

and i see a man whose door is of concrete
and i feel a massive kingdom yet to come,
for it dreams with such vestiges of mine
being completely forgotten and gone.

now tell me, son. am i meant to be unknown?
are my bones crying for i am now alone,
is my name green enough to atone?"


II.

"inside a womb of gold and ash you lie
awaiting the day where the night breaks.
with endless sorrow, their faces make the children cry,
for now they know the night was fake.

a pavement of heart and tissue opens up to us,
breaking the red, cold mist in the air,
and when the day comes for them to realize, thus,
we'll know it all was never fair.

for the paper thrones were nothing but fragile,
and the paper thrones were meant to be painted on.
for the time had come for my brethren to be docile,
and this was our golden cradle, the one to cry upon.

is my name still a name, or is it a foul misery of god?
is my land- no, my city's name what i forgot?
is my name a weak, impactless shot?


III.

"yet i cry:
drae said home used to be cold.
even the rotten leaves would make us seem bold
against the mischievous shadows whose lies were always told.

yet deep in my heart, i still feel their corrupted touch,
a thin tin skin she was forced to vouch (for),
an everlasting greed to feed,
a prayer-shaped hole her innocent eyes were judged (for).

even she would say that such trees were white as snow.
even she would say that such world was not our place to go.
does your wooden door dream, draema?
all i know is that i was never meant to know.

and i weep:

is my name one of blood and lust?
o, draema, was your name meant to last?
all my rotten heart knows is that our love,
into the fire, was meant to be cast.

no matter what.










snow.jpg

Home always used to be cold.



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