The thorn that pricks the wielding death to die among the living to shatter bones crippled in life grow.
Beneath the earth there is a sound a shifting color of war and grief cries in nature.
Rippling along the tides, holding on to the lost treasure at sea.
Washed upon shores cold and dirty, loud and echocentric.
A long way home from peace in outskirts of sun and life around as all.
Burdened to the cold street of greedy and hope.