Surrounding me, dying souls.
Infested souls.
Sunken souls.
Souls that are drifting, floating.
Souls trapped by the grip of the enemy.
Innocent, handcrafted souls.

They're coming home.

I'm being suffocated by the weight of this mad, mad world.
I am weeping, adding salt and water to the flood of my children returning from the battle raging beneath my Heavenly sanctuary.

All because of a declaration.
An act of malice guiding unfit soldiers into the strangling hands of war.

Souls that never had a chance to live out the lives I set before them,
now stand before me.

The only thing I can say to their questioning eyes is this:

beauty is born from destruction. styles and rhythms and words will emerge from these malevolent years.

Lives that were stolen by signatures
and trenches
and gas
and bacteria ridden bugs
and all things not made by my gentle hands,
Will be replaced by a stronger Lost Generation,
Who will turn this world, page by page, nearer to the world I intended for my children.