Sleep, dearest creature of the night, you who adores the shining moon, I said to myself as the music began to echo through the room
A nyctophile blood ******* devil, gifted black demonic wings alike a bat when it flies, strengh beyond reason and a tongue full of sick lies,
Yet a ray of sun may be lethal to you, burning you away as if you were paper caught in a firestorm, an inferno of heat, vaporized at last,
Life force relies in blood, impurities of constant change I need since I have already passed away theoretically I am most likely already dead
A music box plays for me alone, transient melodies from the recurring memories of a brighter, vivid past, to which I am are unable to return to,
Ahh, phantoms, a nuisance of the mortal life I have escaped alike the shooting stars over a clear, living,traveling, dark blue night sky
Have I toiled well, hard or long to achieve heaven, yet have become stuck as the devils tool in a illusionary world with no end ?
Flowing water seals me away, I cannot cross when it rains, and need a polite, kind invitement to intrude and cause wicked bloodshed
Sleep, so I may can be innocent until the sun has sunken down to rest,
Slumber,  the world of dreams is free from weaknesses to purification,
With great magic, comes a devils recitation, engaging in a distant dream far beyond the grasp of my crimson, blood drenched hands,
Unable to advance,  shadows of those who have forgotten the fear of darkness spread and creep around, hidden in nights embrace
Empty consciousness I am attracted like a fluttering butterfly to the gentle reflected light by the full moon in its fullest sensation,
Raise this song of love and paint it in a moonlit night for me,
Dance with me, until we aren't part of this world any longer, dear,
Sounds melt into silence, structure forms within chains of destiny,
Even if tomorrow were never to come, I couldn't care less,
For now, just let me rest my eyes

~ Umi

Brooklyn
is LONGING for his warm presence
because this place is cold
without him—
the fallen SOLDIER
who was lost in a sight
of a snow angel
in a battle of FRIGHT CAR

faith
that we never loose
and a pinch
of a never ending hope
awaiting for his HOMECOMING
in a cold Brooklyn
that even with
the heat radiating from a FURNACE
the cold won't melt away

catching
a hold of the SOLDIER
in a mid-frozen way
and in count from ONE—
to NINE
he become a man of no BENIGN
tempted by control
triggered by words of fear
he comply himself as a SOLDIER
of cold blooded missions
and for that cause—
Soviet is harsh

darkness
on a DAYBREAK
was enough to fill harshness
inside parts of him
that are already RUSTED
as the result of
being more a machine
than a man himself

wishing
from the depth of his consciousness
that he could turn back time
to where he was SEVENTEEN
with a hold of a friend
and a smile that was genuine
not a killing
and a destruction machine
that he is now

Heroes aren't perfect.
They are broken pieces placed together to form a beautiful mosaic and yet they don't give up.
Their heart hasn't always known the 'right' choice, for they too have felt anger, doubt, pain and in the midst of those negative emotions they choose happiness.
Heroes aren't fearless.
How do you think they became heroes? By facing their fears head on, looking them in the eye while saying, "you do not control me anymore."
Being fearless means that you have never loved anything so much that losing it could break you.
Heroes are brave.
For when the final battle comes, they look at the world with bloodstained teeth and tears behind their eyes with a crooked, sinister smile and say,
"is that all you got?"