He wants to,
wants to whisper them away.
All those problems of would be play,
nauseating but worth their red and decay.
On his tongue they taste like hay,
a fungus that will never grey or hear his say,
because he holds back,
he holds back the rhymes and welcomes those condescending lines,
they dictate his time with what should be fine for the most high and them.
For a child like him the line was pain and strife,
but he touched that line and came back looking fine.
those who glorified the most high and the star as true convinced him.
Convinced him to leave the line of the lyre to lounge in the ways of their wine.
And in that moment,
his less than weary journey
with aide but no merry
that left no scars as memory
lost purpose as he missed his line of fire because he leaves.
He leaves behind the arsonist that should be craving a fire that will never be.
Thus I become big brother, the version born of the flux ignorable while he turned Winston.
Hiding in dark corners to shield himself from masters who will slay him.
After I leave for my bright new sky,
it pours and pours to kill his fire.
It puts out his fire,
which is my fire.
IT’S OUR FIRE!
I left the man who was the fire.
I left the sky in all it’s splendor,
and died because we are that fire.
They killed the man who could have been fire.
They killed us,
we could have been fire.