It tis WHAT it tis.

The phoenix wings wrapped and embroidered into a cross.

A last gasp,a breath that never became.

And then there was one.

A thief steals the show,a rehearsal on the brink of damnation.

Remember me when I collide with dirt and debris from the ashes of this burning pit.

It is finished,til I return to carry you home,and lay you into the soil.

Like a flower that bends and stretches itself towards a broken halo that I wear as a crown.

A king is born From a pauper robed in crimson thorns from a dead rose.