11/5999

Torch the skies, but believe, for me, it’s all the same.
A grain that's been worn down. And set free,
The flow of disease that bleeds at your
Dispense, and all that you dream away.
Override, preach thy knives for your
Needs to blind the heavy minds.
Hurt yourselves, but believe,
Between all red is you,
And not what I leave.
Every tide you breathe,
Restless hands
Will now read
The odds
To you.