Sta.sh
To live compared by a cynic’s lies,
He freely accepted his stoic demise.
Long forgotten were the rules of just,
Trifling importance like a burnt bread crust.
Gifted was he with a legend’s hand,
Yet scrutiny saw his passion bland.
Dreams became an incomplete phrase,
And impeccable hate was all his praise.
Calling forth to the guardian of the lone,
Asking the sins for which he must atone.
What worth were the words he stood on by,
If nobody alone was willing to comply?
And thus in the hours where he’s most alive,
He figured out how he’d be able to thrive.
For all he believed has left him bereft,
He decided the world needs a new kind of theft.
What sense is living waiting for nothing?
Time’s gotten bored and loudly complaining.
How long and how foolish was he to be blind,
Creating your own fate you must not be behind.
And like a ravenous wolf he bore his fangs,
For upon his shoulders, everyone hangs.
Amazing the spells of the thing they call Love,
To borne a phoenix from a pure little dove.
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