Soundless in an overshadowed realm. What gust of wind -breath of god -is ever still? Crumbling; all time is swept away; the fever of
memory. Repentance is a two-fold scheme... sea against shore.
Evinced in solid and shape; the orchestra of breath. Gaze sternly over agony lying in state. Poetical apotheosis; they are not created to
die! Frantically grasp the terror of Allowyal.
I cannot feel now...ANGER...HATRED... what have I become?? Torn from death's lifeless tree. Those far reaching shadows... I am ripped from
the earth; the air; the depths! You cannot make the dead live again.
