Stalins War He Who Lives By The Sword Dies By The Sword
Another shot fired in anger to speed our own demise, to
aid the beast that hunts us, upon retreat from blurring
skies. We suffer the pain of blood flow amidst a sea of
closing doors; clutching tightly to the sound of our own
screams...these words won’t reach the shore. Burning down
the sky ‘till there is nothing left; we smother every
feeling under the weight of regret. Our fists held in the
air won’t give us the strength to decide: What’s right?
Who’s wrong? Where do we go from here? And as we’re
sinking to the bottom, we leave our anchors unrestrained;
because the promise of redemption escapes us. Peacefully,
I will sleep beneath the scorching sheets; and upon the
ice of failure, I will dream that I am one with the
flames; and in the wind, the world will hear my name.
