The flame down
the path,
leads to set 1.

My heart is made;
created forthwith,
under exact measures;
a beat in tune
with what I thought
was right;
and the line is pure,
again.

I didn't create;
I didn't initiate;
blast patterns 
are decided by those
of the greatest intellect,
bastards don't know
the release
of me;
the smooth melt,
the smoky retreat-

I guess as long
as they come,
(does it feel good sweetie)
that face is worth it,
that feeling they feel;
not the sweaty mess
they leave,
that taciturn voice
drowns by flowing
in their heads-

You created,
you started,
and the peace was kept;
never a stranger
who feels weird about it.

So the results 
of foraging,
no races won
just fresh meat;
eat, consume, grow
and bud into...

Well we know,
don't we?
I bring fire,
hands up;
back to set 1:

The beginning,
and your Eden
who is the way?
who is to blame?