On broken wings, I ride the angel till’ she dies.
What serenity- a flame that licks and doesn’t burn.
A round, silver face, broadly flaxen towards the sunrise,
In the light we all become alive, thirsty pupils to learn.
An everlasting crusade condensed in ancient, thick outcries,
Written beyond the stars, fueled from The Pit of Fire & Bleeding Eyes,
Presumably, it’s God’s turn.