The cliff of epiphany, perched below the lonely sky ,
Played host to divine directions that none dare defy;
But when men conquered the realm of gods,
Forever in Favour of ephemerals, remained the odds.

The game of chance , is a an antique of an age dead;
When questions haunted our mortal head;
And answers were disguised in victories, pyrrhic for most,
The vestiges of which seldom wash off the temporal coast.

Like a fugitive marking his escape,
The candle’s flame flickers, sans shape.
Like a melting heart, it lives its end,
For to exist today is to offend.

So once again thunder strikes, the cliff of old,
The cliff of gibberish  ,where our mortality was sold.
The epiphany echoes through the valley of the doomed,
Where once danger thrived and adventured bloomed.

So,
This City shall burn ,
And so shall I ;
But I’ll wait till I hear its final sighs,
Lest I become a lover , without a mate,
Yet On the crutches I stand of fickle fate.
Now , I hear the cries of the living corpse
As he sheds his skins of mortality
He stands open as he begins his morph
Towards a new reality .