As these excruciating times nest now upon us,
will we have the
strength to execute our passions wisely?
Or as every minute bleeds into the next,
will these shores of time subside,
and leave us with the blindness of our hearts.

Every legend's wrath will have
its day to embitter its demise into a gain,
to patch the broken lights
of its decay as rebirth in fires leave us slain,
to replace every moment of our pain,
to watch you die again each day
with the solace of a hope forgotten and unsustained.
So now as want would now suggest,
shall we fall like all the rest,
or do we have the strength to suffer
every moment of our hopes decay?

Cursing every shadow,
every shadow of our sight,
while slaving for a second chance,
we're guilty of an apathetic glance.

Embolden by no threat or conscious flaw,
inside the will to live is faltering.
In this war of words, I stumble from my path.
I will shoulder every burden of despair until I die.