At the keep where he was kept,
Sleeping awake above books of little interest,
Cornelius had his guards welcome old friends,
To stand within his company.
Red was reinforced by blackened scales,
Of halting persuasion, no blade could cross,
Bend-wise, down, left or right,
Only forward against advance,
Would blows receive that which was kept,
Inside their insistence that,
Mankind's destiny not bow.
Before the command of Song or Venom.
A closed decision, offered no openings.
Slammed shut vapid covers, returned to shelves installed by father.
The scholar king, it was said he was the most well-read Farth of all time,
Far from me to judge a man whose charisma rallied freedom to blossom,
In fields of comfortable servitude, against his cruel edict, abuse was accepted,
Even loved before its passing from this world, the light stung, the darkness comforted,
Daytime's burning insults.

False memories,
Is believed to be inside every human,
From conjuring a memory from a dream,
To witnessing a funny act and suffering a lifetime of petty arguments as to who and who didn't actually do it,
Or even remembering events before the age of memory existed.

I see those erased memories,
Like a bird that just flew far and farth away,
Ending lost to roam the spiky unconcious,
Flying low,
Dodging and resting,
To only being able to chirp its existence in our dreams...
Trying to let us know they're there.

As I got older,
And the bird started chipping at my branches,
I started worshipping the concept of false memories like she was my god,
I prayed and admired her,
For the times when my head felt like it would explode from that bird chirps,
I would cling to her,
Hoping that she would convince me not to listen,
That she'd deny that bird,
Give me a moment of silence.

Because those chirps,
Always speak the unimaginable,
That would **** me.