Pieces of broken glass greet my feet at the door.
Shards and remnants from a past and painful insecurities.
Once of an obsessive nature, compelled to innate treasures incandesced with creative measure.
Where Palms of glory become overshadowed by meek hearts, done with ailments baring satire adorned blue wishes.
My moon clarity now has dexterity, residual visuals stamping out the meta physical.
Yes, its a period of rest but even the best have to stop and make sense.
Disengaged motives trumped up by false maturity, in a world where man is king is there ever any loyalty.
They harbor minions who sate and create the deaths we take for granted by a slanted sense of pride in those who bide lives.
Blood on the hands of innocent children, political war we raise hope and fall short in. To a place lacking faith I stress your harvest’s misplaced and in memory…
Blood On The Moon
Written By I.T
bivantate 