Drawing On The Wall

Break.
Breaking.
Broken.
Fallen angels have spoken:
The devil does not lie beneath hard ground,
But instead lies within our fathers without a sound.

It poisons with greed,
Taunting us with it’s venomous tricks,
Until evil scars our fragile souls and sticks,
Like an ice cold chill,
Or a burning pain that’s not real;
All the fallen fall here.

I thought the fall was mine,
And mine alone.
I thought my identity had been blown.
I thought the pain of tearing wings,
Was mine to keep and own;

Mine to own like the fear of dark,
Mine to own like my own nervous mark,
Mine to own like this lack of memory,
Mine to own like a long lost melody.

And here we are.
We are here,
Escaping our roots,
Our own private hell,
Hidden well.
Within this ridiculous hypocrisy,
The angels are forced to Earth.

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