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The logic of rotting, and withering;
Like the purity of human beings.
Like the given touch of life.
Just simply vanishing and vanishing into a burning void.
Senses like a soft rose, slowly burning away at the tip.
Flames sweetly consuming it in whole,
Than leaving nothing but the taste of ash in your minds lip.
A change or something of old becoming new.
Slowly shifting into the darkness
Or gradually ascending towards the light.
And beings of no remains.
Guided towards a valley of bliss, or a city of woe.
Ever-changing into demons and misguided angels.
Skills, talents unknown,
Reaps away at your soul, as does things of life.
An ability to save only reaches the pure not the wicked that plagues’,
Tip of a hand touches the clear water,
Showing the impure, as water turns black.
Consuming and taking
The healthy the sick
The pure and the wicked
Like a being with never ending hunger.
Slowly ticking, and ticking
Then simply vanishing like a grain of sand.
Ill fated with the genes of war
Ill fated to die out, like a once ancient civilization.
The good, still eager to save the so ill fated,
Die of a miserable death but attains true peace.
Beings of war and destruction,
Once knew of this thing we called peace
Now we are just going, going, and going