Decapitate Their Son

It is my fathers reason,
Why my mother never came home,
She is were the angels dare to tread.

Tearing through this hell hole land,
Without a reason to stand,
Theres nothing left for me.

Lovers hatred bred free,
Expecting the blood to be,
The crescent colour inside.

Emotional executional divides us all,
Thinking back I recall,
Decapitation is a fond memory.

When all spirits bled red,
All over the balcony,
It was everything I ever dread.

Six years old watching this butchered soul,
Fly away, away from me,
Barley grasping onto her fingers she told me.

All the secrets of humanity,
Everything I had the potential to be,
This is why they lied to me.

Ian Robert Potapoff