Am I raw to the living?
Does abrasion seep into your ears?
Is it I who is the fantasy?
Or The Hallowed one of fears?
I've seen the world without a sight,
Vanquished more than fickle pride.
It lingers as it builds infection,
And turtles as it hides.
A dosset of perfection,
In a world that you can't live.
A gift of simple yester-year,
Which sadly I can't give.
If panicked they WILL run,
For shepards ARE in short supply.
And the ONLY way they'll cross the rivers,
ARE with carrot-sticked white-lies.
Destitute, the meak emerge,
To reign over all reins.
To grip the fear, they hold so dear,
From a god that lives off gains.
An auspicious aura creeps the air,
As nations take to rise.
And from horizon's fading breath,
The dragons close their eyes...