Foul stench that bequeaths thy lungs
Whos hooks dig deep, scraping cruel;
Tearing at the being within.
Leave, thine dependant gremlin.
Your sour blood burns cold.
Salvation comes not
For young faces, pure.
The dirt demands its blood
Stopping at little to get its fill.
The ground flowers, creepers red.
Call not into the night
The wandering deer.
For the darkness holds vipers wild.
Whose venom seeps faster
Than young feet run.
Run fast, through the chill of the night.
The minions of the dark
Lie in wait, in hunger,
Throwing out their traps,
Their sheaths wrap, suffocating.
Even the aids of the night
Are vunerable yet.
The branches wrap tightly
Round thine still heart.
Yet the fight must live on,
So the passion to survive
Thrives rife within.
Igniting all senses
The fire must blaze, alive.
Burn bright the fire of the night within
The soul casts its fuel out wide.
For when morning comes
The rain does fall
And the fight of the fire dies.
A little spark is all that lives;
Its fate to be decided;
Do the Gods play cruel, throwing down the rain
Or take pity and