A Soul's Window

BLuNTSMoKE 

A Blood Crimson Lunar               IV~111~MMX

 

 From the capitol of nations, to a nation of capitols

From pentacle's of war, to a congress of old men

Talking of war

In rooms ornately fashioned

Stone steps and marble floors, wooden doors

Speaking of weapons in the hands of a child

The old men do the thinking and creating

The expression of the child's eyes is that of an absence

They seem to be looking for a father

They seem to find only the wrath of their name

They seem to be looking for something

Beneath banners of the strongest clan standing next to them

Upon evil streets grown lost in whispers and  legacy fashioned into thick histories, overgrown like the vine that climbs the buildings

Where were we when they walked these streets?

Apart from our protection

Outside of the wisdom of our knowledge

Where were we when their the brothers turned to enemy?

Where were we when these territories were taken

Old men decide these fates and casualties

Choosing from a menu

The will lead you to trust the catch of day?

There are those who dream to be a martyr

There are leaders who bleed nightmares

There those who are oblivious

There are those who want you to believe they are oblivious

And this is obvious

Who would dare speak of such things?

Who would dare disobey a master?

 A man with blood on his hands

A man who has loosed his own chains

Only the axe man is free now

Until the day he receives the very same judgement

Always the executioner knows

A man who kills with his own hand

Bred from a colony

Bred for a country

Led by a flag

Born to breed a monopoly

Learned to lead a life of destruction

Who is he who cannot be strong and cunning

For who is he who will not bend a knee unto  his captor

There are no illusions upon the field

There is no confusion when it comes to blood

It begins in black

It only turns red with oxygen and the light to perceive it

They will always say these are the end of days

They will always say

Whispering behind closed doors

Sending children to defend them

To defend them from their own horror

There is no honor upon the field

There is no quarter from the ghosts

They will never spare you from yourself

As much as they will try

A youth having never been denied victory

A youth having never escaped defeat

They never know it is a parallel

And therefore a metaphor destiny

And they will try

The old men know this

They have prepared for decades

They have created spawn camped foes

They begin to hunt with no chase

They become sick with this perversion

Devoid of choose by unlimited option

Still steady hands though

Bred for a soldiering

Bred for an infantry

Bled as pawn in the final sortie

Of a very long day

Impossible how it seemed impossible

Until it became surreal

It became fashionable

The man who takes his own initiative

Becomes his own master

There is no other law to him

He who would build his own fortress with his own hand

He who would protect his own land

He who would permit no man, nor woman to judge him

He who would go against all but his own empire

A man who kills with his own hand will never remove his legacy from his Own destiny

A true trial awaits all

The ghosts will never leave a soul undone

The gods will never leave the breathing while they are sleeping

It is not known what happens on that other side while you are on this

Other side

The views through a soul's window are only witnessed by a few

This experience becomes too profound

Even  though at some points common

The eyes of a child seem to roam free

Until they crash into a wall of fury

Old men play games of instincts and fire

They create a fabricated fantasy

To live vicariously

The child knows nothing of this

They only see a blood crimson lunar

Their curiosity a prophecy as well

Who is he that has redeemed himself

Unto himself?

For who is he that has control of his own mind?

A man who hunts his own kill

A man who has his own clan and sigil

A man who plants his own flag

Born of a unknown father

Born from a woman enslaved

Born into a realm of corruption that was born in the beginning

A corruption foretold in a genesis

So bold even the gods turn away

Only the demons play when there is blood on the field

There is no illusion as the magic slips away

Even the brightest spark  and star fade

The child's eyes reflect

Light from many light years ago and away

The old man's eyes turn grey

Yet they still reflect

They transfer images

They try everything

Everything that the can possibly be pulled  within their grasp

They will take

They will always take until there is none left

Until there is nothing

The hunter will hunt

Until the soil is quenched with blood

Until his stomach is filled with meat and mead

The hunter will stop until his heartbeat fails

Monarchs dream to become martyrs

The old men gather intelligence from their students

The students are tutored by servants

Always it is the bastard who has turned king slayer

There is no honor among thieves

Horror is all that is required to build a throne of fear seduction

Rebellion is all that is required to overthrow a throne wall

Metal or fire is all it takes to obliterate blood and flesh

It takes temporary blindness to extinguish a soul

Then an eternal darkness

The children know nothing of this

Because they are not told

Old men decide what is in their own best interest

Few choose a path of their own construction

Because the road was built before conception

Because it is not known what lies on that other side

Trained only to believe in what is seen

Trained to be deceived by words that are being spoken

Trained to see and think through minds projected upon a visual screen

The picture enhanced beyond sensitivity

Devoid of sensibility for it is not needed in this verse

This game came be played whether it is perceived or not

By sheer dominion and inertia

All will traverse all

The ghosts will always linger directly behind

A reflection

Momentum is everything

There is nothing that is invisible above darkness

There is nothing that is invisible beneath light

Death is transformation

Murder has many forms

Justification becomes a vacuum

A philosophy of old men who survived by living

Vicariously

The child's eye mimic a blood crimson lunar

Who is he that is not us all?

All walls become breached

Bleached by velocity

A soil can only be quenched by blood

A true trial awaits all

Weapons in the hand of a child

Where were we when that day was?

The time we spent hunting were also spent being hunted

There is nothing that is truly forgotten