The ash is damp. The forest, burned.
Possibility falling from my fingertips.
Death and life look so alike,
An angel falls and before me, sits.

Crowds of clouds gather in protest.
Rainstorm, nature's baptism.
Washing Mother's sins away,
The long-awaited cataclysm.

Young woman, standing at his grave.
What's next? What could possibly come next?
Piles of pieces, you know make the whole.
At least they've finally found their way home.

Beneath the city, tucked into catacombs,
Are the secrets that you trust me with.
Your lips press into my self inflictions,
And the marks begin to melt.

A voice enters these chambers
Saying "Angel, what have you done?"
It echoes in the hollowed vacancy of my chest.
I am a stringed instrument.

This is not a time of growth,
Or a step in the forward direction.
This is re-genesis, demolition, catharsis.