Season To Heal

Raw is the nature and talent of birds Fearing the holes of dark art A coping will against sin so divine Bull’s-eye in the path of a dart Course of bold habit, stick with a lifter Ransacked with promise and gleam My floating shell sinks to the depths of hell And I know I’m hard cracked in dreams Stay in without chancing the sting that must come Flaw without need to be spawned Primaly still in near creeping demise Overbearing life pressure’s begun Won’t bliss or convey this dormant dismay Creational slip below reason to feel Though loaded with pride and glad you reside ‘Tis not yet my season to heal