EDIT: I didn't realize I had to explain why. Actually, IMO, this speaks for itself. I challenge you to read this and not put your own beat to it. The delivery of the writing, or the "flow", is immaculate. The imagery is amazing and to be quite honest, it's just plain fuckin dope. I find it to be a remarkable example of creative writing in an OM form.
King of the Skies
By: Cry
This is no place for love...
There's never been a time in life where pictures trump the real thing,
for me that's just a thousand words that wither up the feelings...
distrust disgusts me, really.. save my oldest friends do more,
but if your love is too revealing than simply close the bedroom door.
go ahead and lock it from the inside, key the pocket, nevermore,
keep the ravens from your flock, leave them bird's to feather North.
for the better, severed - let 'em flap. replace the wetted sands
'cause when the North mimics the South, you tend to get entranced.
your viewpoints become mute ploys... silently you're targeted
by them devils painted red... violent fiends from start to fin,
so keep idling, you aren't a fish; fall from sky to scary gravel,
while timing seems a harsher wind that your wings can barely handle.
without a grip on daring gavel, barely driving past your judgements,
rollin' thunderous over treetops, knowing lightning has begrudged it,
looking morbid for it's touches, it makes storms look somethin' lighter
with yellow greens igniting bright as if the forest was the fire...
the heat builds up below and you know just what fate desires:
that rubbish, muck, and mire will become the great empire.
blackening your thoughts, with every inch they make it higher
the city won't make disguises - it's in there they're makin' flyers.
tasted by your worth, though bitter birdseed feels a trick
flames get closer to your food as they're burning feilds of shit,
so there, you smell your fate comin'. no help to save nothin',
one tree survives the chaos, went through hell to make somethin',
but don't dwell on fake lunches provided by tradition
with aircrafts flying out to shoot you down from their position..
your mission was avoid, supserstition was the void,
feeling stuffed up at the top like your existence was decoyed.
you cannot let it go, but no need to get annoyed
with chance to work the vantage where quick precision is employed.
..
you aim down from the sky.. your fear is beckonin' the folly,
then ashes cover ground where all the evidence is calling,
flying head first toward the moon, connection weakened strongly
- heaven sent to save us, yet, you're barely feelin' Godly.
you're the master of the craft, soaring high above the path,
'til one day they come to win the spot you hold as yours at last,
birds flying, never fast, but when the watchers come from hiding
the result of your position is in a windshield or in fighting.
“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will . . .” - Charlotte Bronte
