War eye for I war

Hole up in an old cup of bittersweet remains

Post script of a hotly tipped but reminiscent brain

The juice of which, an ancient itch that lies beneath the skin

To ponder something stronger that no longer believes in sin


Examined up close, an embroidered life only loses all detail

Forever morose, this trouble and strife will fall beside the trail


Falling is a calling to which precious few will turn

But those that do are a chosen few for whom Gomorrah will burn


A statement of the elements from which a master will rise

His origins: irrelevant. Supremacy his prize

No deity his master, no demon his dear lord

He controls his own disaster and wields a self-made sword


Fear is not held dear since dispelling the myths of home

A brand new man, aloft he stands,  to conquer all alone

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