Stalins War May Scores Of Angles
The sickness escalates as if the emptiness has grown too
deep for us to touch the bottom. Every word feels like a
dying breath, as we closely follow trails, in step,
through these halls where death resides. These locks upon
our inner strength won’t concede to your ability to fight
to stay alive. Before I could voice my last goodbye,
never to awaken in this life, you closed your eyes. A
stir of echoes bears a memory that I’d let go of long
ago. I’ve tried so hard to wrap this feeling up in words,
to squelch these days that burn forevermore. I can’t
believe this happens every single day. Not one more
minute will be sacrificed in vain. I fight the feelings
for these words that I betray: To bleed every sickness
from the world and all of its pain.
