quiet bloodshed.

by the grace of gods call, the scarlet colored skies sweeping beneath the trees shadows. 

from the grace of gods call, a voice like a crashing of waves 

bones that riddle with anxious, anxiously awaiting us 

we are silenced by trapped tongues and will 

we are silenced by cowardice 

we stare in the unknown like a tunnel with no forseeable ending 

turn our backs to the forest fire  

let the flames rise until they consume us

and by then it is too late to save ourselves from the ashes 

cowardice is a strange thing 

we say we want adventure, yet we don't take risks 

say we want to become someone, but don't do anything worth speaking of 

cowardice, the scarlet letter of our internal conscious 

sometimes this world will condemn you for being a coward in the right 

than a brave man in the wrong.