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Moon over shines
With its soft sharp rays of light
His power possessing him
It grows as it shines
Supposed rage infused
Within the one with no heart
Where does this rage come from?
If not from a missing heart than from his very soul?
Perhaps this anger is not even his own
But the darkness that overcomes
The darkness bearing evil in its name
The darkness which
Will eat a soul in a hearts place
He cries in anger
Not realizing his soul is being consumed
He dashes toward the one with the key blade
Swift and heavy with each move
However he is struck down
No matter how berserk he became
With the final blow it should have ended
As he struggled toward the heart shaped moon
As he begged with his last breath
And faded into black before the yellow moon
Yet death did not take him
So here is the final question
What took him from death?
From receiving a heart
Black winged demon with a heart within his handThe black winged demon
covered in black yet skin pale white
felt nothing nor cared for nothing
he did not even know what the concept of having a heart was.
fighting fiercely he strikes
from the sky no mercy
from behind without a care
at your chest you will find a new hole there.
it took demons to create him
and it took an even greater demon to destroy him.
yet as blackness fades, his wings turn to dust
the darkness disappears yet sadness grows so much.
the warrior stares in fear from what he has done
she sheds tears and reaches out her palm
and he stares at her, his arm extended...
thinking as he gazed
realizing what he just lost.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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