There are stories heard, tales to be told,
Fables stolen, rebound and resold.

As we are bored by our meagre selves,
We collect the journeys of those around us,
We strive to decorate our empty shells
With words of hatred, love and lust.

I admit that this tale is not mine,
Not at all, and I would not tell it,
If the others remained still from that time,
But that life is much too distant.

Where to begin?
Oh in a tale of such foul nature,
How may one begin?
May one paint a portrait
Of Man’s plights, of Woman’s sins?
Perhaps one may cruelly outline,
The villain’s vile face and petrifying grin.

Be it wise to lie for starts?
Fool you with images of spring days,
Calming flowers often sooth our hearts.
Perhaps it be wise to promise
That the world was better at some parts?
But who could ever believe,
Our souls we not always so dark?

Where to begin?
Oh how the thoughts dance within the twisted mind.
Is this punishment for dreadful sin?
A voice without tune, poetic beings without rhyme?

How does one hope?
In what do we place faith if the very last of humanity fades away?
Leaving us to the mercy of an unforgiving figure
Who finds delight in leading men astray?

The world has fallen,
We have ran, screamed and cried out for help that will never come
For we had been deserted by all we ever trusted,
Betrayed by the earth, the water, the fire of the sun.

And in the bloody darkness
We have found our greatest regrets within ourselves and those we thought we loved.
And we have realized there is no more use in praying and begging,
For we have cursed our guardians above.

And from the horror of man,
Sprung the most gentle of spirits,
And she pleaded by her fragile hand,
But no one cared to listen.

An angel then, from heaven she hailed,
Broken to see the world of men,
In light of wretched murder marking how we have failed
Her heart broke and broke again.

The tear will paint her face,
In a tragic shade of sorrow,
She had come to redeem this place,
And yet we denied her joy of morrow.

Crimson blood coloured her dress,
And soon she looked a demon,
She fell, crying, to the mess,
Of the world she used to live in.

How dost one take a leap of faith into the wild,
When it is nature, if anything,
By which she is drawn into the eternal nightmare,
Lost is her world, dead is her child.

And when she called to the sky
He looked down upon her
And shook his massive head a “no”
He told her now, was time for earth to die.

And her tears fell as she stood alone,
In the world we had ruined for her,
The world that which she’d come to love,
The home in which she took life, in which she’d grown.

And as the world died,
She too went with it,
In the void echoed lies,
And the feel of dampened spirit.

The only wonder, forgotten yet so dear,
Torn from the world as a cause of man’s fear.