The beginning was alarming which hastily grew and in the end it was disarming, the same old story the likes of which was always disarming and really, really bad timing. Is this a number or history fading, the wheels of fortune in the hands of a loon. Masses medicated, spoon fed lies. Look in to my eyes there was no spies.
Strange events will occur - this event will be red, blue and white - events that will be a precursor to an event that shines down some will say is a fake and a lie. The event will be in all languages, it will be in all colors - beamed across the oceans and it'll will roar with a deafening wave of every voice. It will be in the form of a desperate answer, but for the one it shall be a wind across the soul. When the signals comes and the hour bells toll, the bridges will fall and the sky will fall, the efforts in vain but for the single new born brings hope under fire - the concrete and stars will shine no more but for the breath of a new day that's far away - it'll work for one day, then ten hours and them that know will fight about it, will hurt and die for it. It's worse than the truth itself, this knowing. It's the knowing, I know not why. It just is, like the morning itself. The hunger for a new day is all but in vain. This is the masses and the two in the know. In a bright yellow lit hallway will be a scratch of red of which the color is known inside, its the red of fear and the red of hate, fear, hate and fear. Will it be a number or a distant memory, this I do not know?
