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"Why...do you..." the blood writing the stories already spoken in Final Hour, these words were the minutes in the hour "Why...am I...going...to" the voice fading into darkness as the ink of his body spaltterd on the stories of blood, there he layed covering the final seconds, the final words, here we stand, starting again picking up the pen, the sword, the one thing writing the stories slicing into the paper here I lie, asking why I am chosen to die in darkness, as if I was lined up to die, the next character in the story the pen striking the first page.
 PoeticKitsune · Sun Apr 22, 2007 @ 02:26am · 1 Comments |
