Purgatory Steel

01 Dec

By: Bluefin Jones

 

Freezing fires, freezing lives, on the winded path so old,

Through the frost-bitten hail storms, so distant from home.

 

Crossing frosty plains so bleak, little signs of life,

Through the dead forest ghosts, we’ll make our mark now.

Still burning towards our destiny, we traveled on and on,

Pierce the darkness endless as our hearts refuse to die.

 

We burn with the passion of a thousand suns,

Forced against the blackest knights, the march has begun,

Friends and foe alike will taste the iced tundra below,

The time has come for battle now, to make legends untold.

 

Freezing fires, freezing lives, on the winded path so old,

Through the frost-bitten hail storms, so distant from home.

Battle forged soldiers forever fought during lives past,

We’re all lost in darkness endless, so distant from home.

 

We test the boundaries of our souls with the burden of despair,

And we will die in our sleep for a world that’s so unfair.

We travel in circles tired, our tortured souls repeat,

The voice inside calling to us another wasted day.

 

Can’t you see the history, slow creeping madness,

This land of fallen heroes, there’s nothing left, no place to go,

We have traveled far across this wasteland,

Forever searching for an answer, for the right to understand…

 

Freezing fires, freezing lives, on the winded path so old,

Through the frost-bitten hail storms, so distant from home.

The gates of our promised city will never unfold, forgiven we are not,

Only a shadow of pain remains, still in time, so distant from home.

 

BIO: In a time different from this, on a distant sea, Bluefin Jones, while riding his domesticated Dinoshark, spoke to another man simply named Redwing Smith, who was held by the claw-hooves of a giant flying Pot-bellied pig, about the quality of peanut butter in this timeline’s supermarkets. Bluefin chose the leading market brand name while Redwing chose the generic brand, and promptly so, they entered an epic battle of wits, loud noises, scoffing, and theories of the sandwich crafting. They went their separate ways and never spoke again, but Bluefin still thinks about that fateful encounter and adjusts his sleeping schedule for 20-minute crying fits of frustration. Bluefin Jones seeks an outlet from the separation and found that his creative outlet is best expressed through the written word.

 

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