The Consequence Just a drop of empty songs, Sinking through skin, to the bone, Crystalyzing to a thorn, Tearing all the skin worn. Now, half empty, half exposed. Like a statue, made of stone.

The Beggining A tale of past, that tastes like future and resembles the present I've been told, Of a being that grew weary, but never too old. Born from the stars, with only chaos in its mind, Cursed with a mist, to forever be blind.