I look upon the incineration of sculptures by an architect who worked under influences of intoxicating delusions, by yours truly,

Screams of ancient demons paint the air,

A blood bath no deserving soul will witness, try as they may,

But glimpses of the aftermath, remain promised,

If you ever stood where I do now, you’d comprehend the consuming surge of a feeling so biblical it defies description in a mortal tongue, but you don’t; but you never will,

Therefore I attempt to paint, 

A picture for a blind audience, so forgive my shortcomings.

Do you smell the irony? 

I smell crimson; a deeper shade than what the clouds adorn this twilight, 

A skirmish of epic proportions, 

An incapable scribe,

A tainted documentation.