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.