Revival

Let go of hopes.
There is a vault of serenity
recruiting a fire.
Painlessly seaming.
a hidden sanction
bereaving the masters.
A rhetoric.

Bruised shoulders,
emancipated disguise-
serenading the eyes.
a woven distrust

And that is it-
the blind side!

Woven in advent,
appraisal of hate,
he stands at the gates,
and gives off the vent.
A brewed pinnacle,
showcasing the past,
the fire ignites-
hovering the empty.

The light-
Demanding!

A hollow craving
for the grave.
The grace that awaits
when the wolf smiles,
beware—
there is always a taste of the color red.

The transforming gaze,
unleashing the tear,
ravishing the fear,
un-fairing the fair.
And he who knows
reminisces the throne.

It’s a daunting fairy tale,
He was he the way he wanted him to be.

And thus, the howling cries!

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