*pages are torn, water-stained, and marked by drops of blood or dirt. It's falling apart at the seams.*

Gods walking on the faces upturned; Faces with eyes closed like a chest of gold. Anticipation, warm like a sword soaked in life's blood. The wanting of the beggar as he wanders the streets Is nothing short of war. War that kills. War that maims and harms. The dark kind of war that leaves a wife without a husband, And a daughter without a defender. Doors, cracked, and windows, shattered. The dripping footfalls of a passing vagrant rain, Sounding the final call to charge. In blood comes a sense of deepening, Further into the aether, Furthering the arrogant mind that mocks your voice. Every word becomes dry ash. Your tongue begins to melt. My eyes turn coward and surrender to the wax and wane of fleeting cruelties. To feel is to feel, And to feel terror Is to Know Know No