To correct it all;
to steal away the pen of history,
the coup of the author would be worth flawed flesh.
Imagery of tyranny leaves no impact.
An objective flies directly from a heart to the bearer of its chain
to which I am devoted to bet the last of all energy.
Let wills dissolve into laser’s precision.
Enough remains for two chances at salvation:
The excavation of normalcy turned fantasy when buried under impulses.
Tragedy nips at the heels; ignore it.
Mistakes are computed to an ultimate act of loss; move past it.
Of a million routes carved into history,
one deserves the barrage brewing inside me:
The lasting act of a character on stage.
A fratricide blinds the eyes of the fortunately ignorant,
made a feature drama as a man’s scorn drills a hole into a daughter.
Encased in shock with limbs halting in motion,
a mad scientist must come to action.
Fates and forces out of mankind’s deft hand are ever so elusive.
The leader of the gate,
the seer of diverging matrixes;
he is the one to hold the key to any reality.
The irony forever dawns in the unrelenting knowledge of effects,
where the movement of the savior caused the ripples he now adjusts.
It would have to be the worst of all great minds to err so,
though never faltering as foes arched arrows into the castle.
The leader of the gate paves the way.
Destiny’s eyes can be tricked by theatrics.
The final cost comes in blood and I’ve it all to spare.
I’ll submerge beneath a rising haven.
None more will see or know the name that allowed it to soar.
Seeing life erupt in eyes once prophesized as closed,
I’ll submerge beneath my masterwork.
Distant regimes topple into forgotten chronology,
but the magnum opus is you and I.
I need no praise beyond this point of ascension through descension.
I’ve found a purpose in bleeding out.
To live or to falter at the gate,
I no longer feel a need to pretend.
I know now who I always was.
I am he who holds the key:
The leader of the gate.
( ❤ Mitch)