FROM HIS WRITING
It's day seven hundred and......... well forgive my demented memory, at least you get the idea
Dreams crave to once more take hold of this insomnia
Its nothing less of a miracle that i still breath the aroma of oxygen from the earthly - Musty smells
I am one with blind salamanders, dining and making a home where this restless body dwells
The sheer darkness herein, covered in three nights, offers more comfort than the light above
The Crickets, harmonizing with unfamiliar territorial warning predator sounds, a sweet melody i have come to love
The chaos continues to unfold
A manifestation of the ripen warnings and prophesies foretold
Deafening high-pitched Whizzing sounds consume the airwaves
Clanks and clunks, beeps and bleeps in search of slaves
Divergent's, defying the mechanical gospel of automation
Believers of the old ways, banking on the principles of rawness and authentication
With me are the last scrolls, penned with blood of liberation
Humanly scripted and crafted with hope of restoration
Weapons in the hands of the loyal Knights fighting the annihilation, of golden knowledge scribbled in stone and passed from generation to generation
Behold the fountain of authentic and unfiltered knowledge, breathing life in the mist of death and endless fighting
A beacon of triumph and creativity on the horizon, a selfless gift shared wholesomely, from his writing.
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