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.