Primal tendencies come fleeting.
The most logical apparatus in nature,
yet senses are first to be culled.

Something of a storm, striking without warning.
Kindling becomes flame, growing wildly.
Praying to be ignited, grieving to be forged.
It's seemingly pointless to resist.
You give in, and it's something terrible.

Humanitarian virtues completely ignored.
As the fire swells, oceans of flame erupt your belly.
Brilliantly orange the aura lurks around you.
Intoxicated visions become reality.
Blindly you roll around, lunacy takes hold.

As your hand made into a calloused fist, you feel
benevolent without self doubt, yet ageless with strength.
Striking the name, even god himself -
had he shown toe to toe with your flame.
You now burn with stalwart devotion,
you cut deep down somewhere near integrity,
yet so blindly.

Ventricles of youth gaze upon you.
Ludacris with insanity, your veins boil with red justice.
The ancient tendencies foster the child inside.
Your calloused hands shake with no disease,
only a pumping chest.

In a instance, you awake.
Never dreaming, but never truly away.
Dizzily, whispers of morality soothe the skin.
Recalling the love for humanity, and logic.
A chill breaks the mold.
You realize what you've become.