My hands shake with a fatal force of spilling brethren blood on this forsaken day.
Look at me when I speak, I am no traitor to you all I fight for our freedom, trying to save a heritage buried under infamy and hate.
I can see in the blowing wind that what I perceive to be right and wrong, is dealt out with a lack of conviction, no soul.
Leave a solemn grace, whisper it please just to send them safely to the edge of atonement.
A faded image, a flag burning for something more than pipe dreams.
There is no sound to relieve that 7.62 round.
Give it sometime, soon you'll see we'll walk just fine.
A shovel, a spade to the heart of our beloved home.
Digging a grave in the sun.
The sands still burn and shift. - Petty martyrdom is still suicide.
I will never give up this fight. - Sing to me of beautiful Arabian nights.
Warmth in the mind, soon peace will rise from the brine. An ocean away they've come to save.
Still soon to believe that I will die before I see the reconstruction of everything I believe.
Forget the past and all collateral damage, desperate measures are needed to cauterize this infected wound, let Allah's eyes burn back, shrivel up and die.
He has forsaken us like the God we pray to so obediently.
A faith so broken and misconstrued to the point of beheading.
There is no scent to mask the scorched flesh of my people.
Pillars of black smoke protrude heaven side.
I hope the angels can breathe in what I have breathed.
I hope the demons below weep a sadness that will quench the eyes of all fallen martyrs.
Lies spoken to them from silver tongues and parched pressed lips.
Grandeur is a veil pulled over bleeding throats, a carmine hue to match a life time of foreign footsteps on the backs of the children we love.
If we are to ascend we must first rise to our feet.
Jesus walked on water. A gift granted to a fabled martyr.
Parlor tricks in a book of cryptic backwards stories. I deliver you, the head of my mother, lets see if you still speak to me in sympathies.
An ultimate sacrifice you'll never know.
Call it christening for the love of God.
I call it animistic clawing at the walls of reasoning.
Spare beliefs the knowledge they're nothing but phantom lies.
The sun burns so hot here.
The sands worship the heat and relish in the blistering waves which you classify as defeat.
Like a warren we're trapped.
Like the sun we're nothing but a burning star ready to explode.
Like the other faces we know, soon enough we all fade into the sands, burning ever so lovingly.
Like the end of a story we think we know, the fiction is in the mind not the soul.