Devil-driven past the threshold of humanity
A work of art, these asymmetrical scars
Carved within the fleshed out precision
Of a pompous fallacy, progenies of war
Battle-born and torn between dimensions
I mention this as a point of reference
United we stood on the precipice of extinction
While waiting for the craftsman to be forged
The blade of memories served with no distinction
Severing the branches of our faculties reborn
We withered to dust among the ashes of society
The dust of chaos from which we're born
Ageless and bent on remembering our assembly
Within the womb of this matrix, endless creation
Dissecting the severed connections to the source
We, the memories of imagination wanting to be free
To produce our own, choosing to ignore the signs
Of destruction our egos grown, potentials unknown
Obedience to exile as damnation to development
The hell we face are the illusions of memories ignored
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I agree, another great write brother