The bud rots away until the ashes of summer decay in my mind and all that ever was becomes the essence of the wasteland inside my soul.
Washing my heart of the blood within, I turn into what was always to become of me, of what I never could overcome, of what I was destined to be controlled by and never will myself away.
I will wilt until the blood red sun burns my people into a river of blood and the corpses will turn to soil the feed the children of fallen warriors.
