Beneath the warmth of the sun, the mighty light breeds down upon the wise men.
For her voice is soft spring to the fall of men, who's ears shall forever be lost in her tormented spite. Oh laugh now, Daughter of the reaper. To rob, of course, the life of ourselves in a posh and little carriage we call life. For when we crawled out, the nodding excuse is that mist we see upon the head of hemp. Their red eyes follow each summer's morning, with the thought that took us. A imperial court of kill and struck slight.

They are mad.

For if we told the priest our concern, we shall be greeted with a grin in the summer mouth. As sure as the sun shall rise from the north, we shall remain, yet we are disgusted. Surely they will sing of the little things, surely the colorless, the boneless, the eyeless, and the lifeless could be free of the butcher and the beast. I hear they live underneath, continuing staring and unable to articulate anything but glee for blood and chain.

Oh, how I look at them. Look at how they gasp for air and panic with closed eyes. Faster they shall sink with swords before they father, for they burn any memory of peace. Forward, southward, northward, they are the choice of butchers, or as the God's say, men. For that is the haunting triumph of a voidless rise men face, dashed is our strength and hallowed is our futile attempt for grandeur.

They commission belief as if it is a way to free themselves of wrongdoing. They saddle their highest spirit onto a throne to match Gods and they shackle themselves to ideals they can not live by nor can seek without sobbing, bellowing, and wild consecration. What do they have? They have dawn. They have night. They say they have reason to carry on, but they are ascended in madness with willingness to fall into the hands of those who speak of faith as if the world was only a few modest trees.

So far they came. So far they are. A poet in their heart, for they made themselves roar in pretend, not renowned for the Gods or the ancients. Rise again and you shall only meet walls, my friend. For they are a landmark and windbreak of your bleeding wanting for more.

Yearn for brighter days.

Yearn for warmful nights.

Yearn to keep the dark at bay.

That is all you do.

For the one who lives by wishful thinking shall never truly be free in their thoughts. Stand alone and you have what? Yourself? And who is to say that you even speak the truth to yourself? With two eyes, you see the world. With a thousand eyes, the world stares back.

That is the only truth. The one supreme virtue. All things you do, all you have thought and all you will, is a consequence that only ripples. For if God truly sought to wrought evil from the lands you walk and the beast you feast, he could with a thought. For if God birthed the child of mankind, he could have made us holy and pure.

Upon that mountain throne, upon that throne of rock, the idol shows the truest extent of power. All you can do is stand before it. Stare up and yearn to enter these massive gates. Look down and see what separates you from your own self. That is the oceans of your mind. What an ideal action, hm?

For there is nothing but darkness before you, can you truly say otherwise?