The death of you, the blame fell on you,
by Naveed Akram
Like a feather has fallen in steam.
We are in flames, we are in flames,
Frightened by those aims and flares.
Loathing me, lost in doubt, is the crisis,
That matches my number of thoughts.
The fire sadly sleeps as fire sleeps,
Forming a weapon after huge serpents.
The death is nearer to subjugation
Than the Hell of our Place, the real Trance.
Death springs to mind as a calamity,
Mindless beings enact the concept of the living.