Oh the treacherous hearts of man, the nature of their flaws.
Possessing power to soar over mountains by mere thought.
Equal in their measure, to lay waste to countries, centuries.
The heart is the tyrant, ruling a mind blindly, but completely.
In cognisance, one is supposed to bare the fruit of rationale,
To bare witness to logic and reason; soundness to judgement.
Where lies the core then, the heart of hearts, the destruction?
What poisoned root, or diseased embrace imbued man these?
What blueprint helix fractured wrung grants such lurid power?
And the flash-bomb that is a chance encounter, one moment
When the balance of power, as graceful as a wind, somersaults.
You cease to be of you, instead mastered by another, fractals.
Every moment cleaves the beam again, and again, and again,
Knitting out quickly diminished, yet growing patterns, filaments
Slivered ever after until the tapestry is shattered in cold blood.
You'll always miss a shard or two, altered is the alter of forever.
The birth of self destruction is of birth, steeped in hearts' blood
And the love that led you to tumble head first into the inferno.
How deep the needles run, when no eternity of day awaits you.
Every drop of blood another nail in the coffin, there is no hope.
But to risk of self is far more satisfying a meal, than to risk his.
Some dishes can never be served, nor tongue refuse a taste.
Necessity is destruction, without the withered none can flourish.
Leveraging the universe, all for a certainty of the ultimate defeat.