Darkness stirs the nectar
Of despotisms fatal cull.
A river bleeds out the
Fatal loss of fears cut.
Burning embers fall and
Gather, as villagers once had.
Near a smoulder, the wick
Of Creation sits in darkness.
The culling hands of Power,
Fear, and Hate, have broke
Again that internal flame.
I quiver at that piercing pain;
A pain that time has carried
Forever on the souls of man.
Darkness stirs on that ever
Broken nectar, who’s rot
Wares on the one mind.
I wish to calm those storms
Within, and light that candle
Wick and send that darkness
Running far off into the eternal.