Mar 07, 2005 22:31
mystical minds fall to drama on stage, conveyed to new thoughts that the writer has played, a man by pen who all not know his name, he is not actually a writer, but a god by claim
plotting the devients and obstructions of times, furious actions flee to eat them to primes, a destructive and deceiving masquerade, an object of focus in evil's parade
turmoil hits the floor and shatters the earth, breaks down deep and burns the hearth, and lay stranded are we at question, as who is to rise to rule in succession, for our writer of life seems to vacate, man at control who is decider of fate
despised cold blacked eve brings night's uncertainty, loathing takes rooting in hunting for impurity, humanity below watches to the controls, a panel of fates for the man that makes
he is a God he is a Life, he is above us all and he is here to stop the knife, he is a director he is a choice, he is the strength of man and the weakness of voice, but only faulted the voice is by sin, ensuring that only the pure paper takes to the pen