sounds of ripped fabric
<br>akin to screams ripped out of a throat so new
<br>to feeling pain
<br>a being so new to feeling anything at all
<br>so new to being without the cold shiver of power
<br>new to the hot tears running down and dripping across his soul
<br>fluttering with fear,
<br>shaking in a way that is unmistakably human

<br><br><br>

<br>i don't want to live in a cage anymore
<br>i've spent so long trying to dispel the impurity
<br>that surrounds my soul and blood
<br>that i ended up being infected
<br>by a holy bright light
<br>that spills out from my veins, my eyes, my words
<br>and the very static that rings in my ears that reminds it of home
<br>home
<br>what is my home
<br>my home is a hand,
<br>guiding mine to trace the horizon of a world anew
<br>my home is not seeing the injustice
<br>not seeing the pain
<br>choosing not to hear the yells and cracks of lighting across the pillars
<br>my home is something lost to interpretation
<br>turned into a nightmare exclusive for the fake and false "pure of heart" to enter
<br>my home is not always peace,
<br>not always joy,
<br>although it is portrayed to be by mortal men who have no comprehension of what it is like to truly <i>be</i>
<br>home is the faint hum of something so small
<br>and fragile and delicate 
<br>and the world is so perilous 
<br>yet the sound persists,
<br>carrying on across a road that will lead to its fate of death
<br>but it still is
<br>i started this as a different man
<br>something other, yet still a man
<br>a man whose life is soon to end due to those same men that have tried to purify something that is already pure
<br>a man who is broken and shattered
<br>a king of a land he does not wish to rule
<br>a tired warrior and a tired weapon
<br>yet he will not let me out
<br>i am holy and i am pure and i am fire and i am beyond flesh or comprehension 
<br>and i do not want to live in a cage anymore