End of lines

Wings fly south,

Carrying with it, echoes of lives long buried

And deaths long lived out-miserable existences

Laid bare, wings in formation, flying south.

 

Cries flock north, not caring who they hit

Along the road to the eyes they were sent.

Pathos. Chaos in vile glory

Sits on his throne, directing the souls of hapless

Lads and wenches to their milky doom,

While he lays back laughing the tears

Of the dead out loud.

But may hope live?

A question asked among the hiding fears,

Fear has become fearful for terror has conquered it.

The very sin.

For in the very throat of hell, flames kiss,

And hearts are turned to the very beasts they hated.

Therefore with joy, they fly back on the wings of

The pleasure of taking down the carefree ones,

Giving them also, miserable existences,

In exchange for the very thing they hold so dear,

Happiness, and the love of it.