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
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