By Arcassin Burnham


Helping hands drifting off onto the skin of father time,
Make him rewind,
Swinish eyes,
Secrets filled with lies,
On the window ceils are steaming pies,
Only If I do right,
And write my wrongs,
Now how does all of that apply?
These seconds felt like hours,
Coming out of the furnace,
Standing on deadly towers,
Society today will not help our founding
Fathers,
Save all your daughters,
Flame.