A Sense For Sin

Hear the thunder within your ears, Crashing down upon your fears, See the footsteps from their meeting, Behind it all, we are secretly bleeding, Smell the blood upon the air, Signaling murder without a flare, Taste the embers upon your tongue, Our weapons become obsolete, dull, and blunt, Feel me tremble from your cold touch, Sense the sorrow, fing the joy, although there isn't much. ~Ed Owens