Suffering for sufferings sake is the truest form of weakness.

Pointed suffering maketh the man.

The Wicked and the Kid 2020

 

Not the man who cowers in the shadows could bear the burden faced upon thee.

Behold a light, dim may it be, able to shake the core of the sun in all its might.

Powerful and mighty, lowly in practice, tyrannical in nature.

Who has the enemy beset upon? Us?

Within one's ranks the torturer lays with the foreshadow of dormancy yet corrupts all it seeks to pardon, for it is known deep within, the true face, upon a crown it speaks, burnt and rotten, so shall be its seed.

It shows its colours for only a moment, capture it if you can, you may have better luck than me.

Defense ha! I scoff at the idea one could even conceive; such a defense is futile when death is what it needs.

The demon knocks on every door, let it in and you shall be purged. Keep it under lock and key, for a devil will rise up to greet. The ruler, the judge, the prosecutor, all serve the same ends, but defendant is its root, protection is its means, for it only seeks to protect that which is most precious to us all. Small may it be, its touch, fatal to the tee.

Low must we walk through thick mud and mangroves to find its nature.

How can we face what only a child has seen? Liar! Is he? I know he is not; pain is what drives his rage, or is the rage the belief. Too painful for one alone to burden themselves with. But who else can confront what others cannot see?

The twinkle of stars can be heard on the coldest nights. Must vengeance be had, to spark up the light?

Vengeance is no friend to me, ice runs downstream, singeing the very walls which carry it. Every star will sing, beaming the most beautiful twilight. Could it truly be? The angels speak? the sparkle? How?

Worry not for angels scream, devils blow ballads enchanting all to sway in unity, but who to trust? Who is so bold as he?

A crown drapes along the road. Prickled and downtrodden, held by all those who know.

Speak not first, let the others speak, who’s wings are white and scorched with blood, fickle with deceit.

Guide that which is lost, leave those unworthy, atop a mountain top is the only place worth hoping.