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.