He who lies naked upon the torn flames,
who cried hopelessly with his arms to the heavens,
the screams that escaped the grasp of his pride,
while the eterally slow inferno raged in moments unto itself,
and faraway,the darkness folds,
in heavenly obedience as the light should cast away,
the pain of suffering painted in the artists blood,
for no picture of misery is perfection,
but the endless suffering that breeds in the river of life,
for should we summon this outcaste angel,
does he gain victory over the mortal soul,
for should that give him back what he had lost,
and woud that be freedom from this black and gold furnace,
where the skies are bloody for the shades of the ancient wars,
the restless ghosts of tragic violence,
fear is lost in the wild and rushing fires that burn in silent space,
and pity this fool who was allured by the mystical calls of desire,
and we are to witness his example,
in the trials of dreams where we shall stand alone,
burning isolation and the universe and life lost to memory.
