In my youth I was a poet. Words stitched worlds. Virtue was the currency, music was Devine. Fire ment light, not bullets in flight. And angels were children, not camo coated knights.
Slowly age comes, and more of death we fear. Devils from a dessert land turn castles into ash and sand.
A angel on its way. But its wings are clay.
Icarus did fall, and on the
way to earth. He spoke of another, a lifetime away. About what he all ways feared. You see Dante was right.there is no reason left to fight. And a quite voice whispers near about earth's heathens. "The earth is another form of hell and the angels act like demons.