Wisdom Is that which
Is only learnt from ones
Mistakes.

For we must always
Learn to adapt to that
Which was wrong, and
Make it right.

If we repeat what was
Mirrored from past errors,
Then no wisdom is gained
Only foolishness repeated
Over and over again.

Its chimes like a lullaby, one
Ancient, cursed. In the soothing
Moments the horror sings out.

Never is it wound up, the lid
Opens a jar, a sensation of
Serenity, to those allured  
By its corrupted song.

Old wood opens as a blackened figure
A wisp of old reaches forth. The music
Plays, soothing on the sense, but all
Is about to change.

Each note lunges in the mind, each
Corroded note, changes thoughts
Of kind, serenity is morphed into
This altered state of mind .

It doesn't matter child, woman
Man, all who hear this ancient
Lullaby cursed upon man and soul.

Object in hand, nothing else is  
Heard only that the music is
Everything, it whispers on Skin,
Bone and mind.

Each drop of blood is a note,
Each scream is but chorus in
This Lullaby of death. It
Gently fills the air with its
Soothing intentions.

The lullaby will never end, the
Figure a wisp upon a stand,
Bows to the audience of blood,
And slowly closes its lullaby of
Death. It has once again sang its
Song, and all is silence once more.

I am a warrior of the pen, my words
Cutting to into you like butter, beware
Your tongue as my pen is shaper
Than any words that you inflict
Upon me, My ink would
Leave you gasping for breath.

I will write you down, I will say
With words that which can bring
A tear to the eye, to make you
Feel emotions as you  have never
Felt before. A single word is more
Powerful and longer lasting than
Any spoken word.

I have a pen that is mightier than any
Sword, it will out last any of your weapons
While  turning to rust & blunt, my pen
Will still bleed words cutting in to the
Paper, words that have always beaten a sword.

I am a warrior of the pen, there are
Many that use, ink, paper & pen to spread
Words that can bring any emotion out with
But a movement  of the pen and thought.

Fairground mirrors make the smallest parts huge...

My words ignite the pen, never
Burning my hand, as inspiration
Writes the words burnt on too
Paper to never fade again.

If the fire should ever go out,
Then the words will not flow, but
Dry up never to be wrote till
Once again the spark ignites.

And once again the pen runs ablaze
Over paper, fuelled from the mind
Once again burning black on to
The paper words once again.

Death is a perfume
That can be smelt
Any time in life.

For the odor is
Death telling us
That the string is
Now cut on this life.

The perfume of
Death invites many
To stay, to dispose
Of this shell,
To let the nature
Take it away.

The perfume of
Death is always
Around, as long
As those living
Pass and the
Shell does decay.

The brain is a terrible
Thing to waste, will it
Make me smart, will
It give memories of
Past mistakes.

Fingers are the digits
That have wrote a thousand
Words, think what they have
Touched the senses they felt
Around the world.

Eyes are the window to
The soul, they have seen many
Things to enlighten the mind.
To wish they would never open
Again for fear of what was seen,
But never to see it again.

A heart it beat for love, sorrow
Touched more than we know,
It beat from birth it has beat more
Than a million times, each energy
For life from the start.

Friend I ask you this, why when
We eat do you think of these things,
Don't think of there parts as what was
And what they were.

They are dinner for us, to fill are
Stomachs nothing more, there were
What they were, but know just
Parts food to feed  us nothing more.

The darkness it burnt upon my
Angel wings, they wilted, with
Each moment of this forsaken
Place, my soft skin did  haemorrhage
Tainted with each breath every
Movement that I crawled upon
This acidic land corroded my light .

My white turned yellow, changed
From pure to black, I was in agony
As that which was white should
Never be turned to that. I was
Winged, not able to give motion
To the air, I was a ground dweller
As if wings were a weight a persecution
To the time of air, now dragging like
A weight a conscience upon my back.

I must have walked upon this scared
Land, I must have moved these once
Pure now tainted as dragged like sin
Behind my back.

I was before I fell, I contemplated
That which I had been and that
Which this land whispered to me
Become. The light was dulled, smothered
Like a wet blanket over a fire, Suffocated
What burnt bright, now I was being
Extinguished my dulled light.

I remembered I fell and my skin smelt
Sulphuric with a hint of light, I knew
I had bleed hatred behind me, I knew
That I had been left, abandoned to this
Isolation. My wings had regained there
Imagery, they were like crows feathers
Pure, dark, black as night.

I despised  those above, their light, ignited
Hatred, deep within where something that
Beat but know was just black, I launched
Upon the breeze to take me vengeance
Upon that purity that  glided, flowed.

I am that which will take those of higher
morals and bring them to the place of
Solitude, of loneliness, they will remember
The pain of those they had been left in the
Darkness,  For light can only last so
Long before it becomes what was before.