There were two devils I knew who reveled, trying to push through to new levels, and their whirling battles with stasis left strewn pebbles obscuring many paths to the proofs that the truth matters. Still, the dew settles.
It was well-worn, this shell of scorn – born of a father Storm and a mother Forlorn – and oft adorned in defense of space to maintain the same form. Yet the spaces in between the safest core are where the greatest change is born; sooner or later the past is shorn to make a place on a face who erased all trace of the base and form which traced out the shape of the basic norm. Still, the sun warms.
Word was left behind in a cleft divine to protect it while the beasts erected an altar to the serpent’s spine. Perfected by the warp of malice and the weft of envy, the tapestry of tragedy was blank and empty, yet infections rise as the emptiness was inspected by an endless supply of sets of eyes guided to the sight by the masters of their debts and lies. Still, each breath is mine.
Some are never satisfied with the lot they’ve earned, they’d rather watch it all burn than to know that someone else landed in the spot they yearned for. Never mind that the winner learned more and paid their price in the workforce and faced late nights after daylights at a pace in the race to attain to great heights then still had the grace to embrace the needs of the lost and spurned. So they shout and they march and they break and they blame and they shake like a leaf in the wind and complain and they stomp on the truth and they fight with the proof and they lie and they cry as they strain to maintain the facade of compassion in front of the mission to blast from existence the gifts they’ve been given and burned. Still, the world turned.
The immortal man laughed, for he’d seen it before, and reminded himself that his soul was his own and could only be shaped by the actions he took. So he walked on the path that he chose, never turning back to the blackness and foes, and his track left a line for the bravest to toe.