As these excruciating times nest now upon us   will we have the strength    to execute our passions wisely?    Or as every minute bleeds into the next    will these shores of time subside,   and leave us with the blindness of our hearts.      Every legend's wrath will have its day   to embitter its demise into a gain,   to patch the broken lights of its decay as rebirth in fires leave us slain, to replace every moment of our pain, to watch you die again each day with the solace of a hope forgotten and unsustained.       So now as want would now suggest, shall   we fall like all the rest, or do we have the strength    to suffer every moment of our hopes decay?   Cursing every shadow, every shadow of our sight, while slaving for a second chance, we're guilty of an apathetic glance.    Embolden by no threat or conscious flaw, inside the will to live is faltering. In this war of words, I stumble from my path. I will shoulder every burden of despair until I die.