The Smite of Time

Sitting Sickened, near the sea. Feeling a loathing,For an industry. This means war. Time will smite you. You'll die by your own hands. If not by your victims. And oh, is that your greed floating upon the sea? A crimson sheen! You are crumbling wet sand in my hands. Your erosion is a bow at my feet. Its an art, to craft my days. Always mindful, of your crippling ways. This means war. Time will smite you. You'll die by your own hands. If not by your victims. And oh, is that your greed floating upon the sea? A crimson sheen! You are crumbling wet sand in my hands. Your erosion is a bow at my feet.

The culture of small mouth big stomach.

The culture of small mouth and big stomach.

I drink its nectar and never feel nourished.

The masquerade I devour like a blind culprit,

who robs many trees from the forest.



A trial for the poisoned land.

Standing before a jury of ancient wisdom,

to be found guilty to a blowing applause.



Now aware of the ruin,

I curse the sentence given.

To die amongst the worlds calamity,

that my very hands took part in.

I now curse the culture of small mouth and big stomach.

Cured by the Sound

Calluses on the mind. The hardness of memories.
Prevalent from much erosion and much form.
Time Pummels to a Pulp.
Collects to a mound.
From the floor to my heels,
With eyes viewing only the life within ovals.
No more. No Less.
Combing the outside with lengthy gander,
in search of ethics.
Through exploration, a fatigue can be cured.
Cured by the sound of a new heart beating.