Philip Daniel Cook


Days are numbered as Eden's flood.

The dead roam this earth.

As the skies crack as the ground.

Into the abyss of worlds.


Fateweaver has found the strings of Eve's heart.

Cannot play them even knows not her voice.

And the king is already dead.


Capsized out of dying love, and death was above.

As the fallen angels blame others for their failure to forgive.

And seize the human scripts making a temple of blood.


That a brave warrior came and dug her out, her soul.

Forged from the gate closed.

He ripped apart and the stars become white

as the crystals in this tomb.


The dead might roam but the living dead may set the dead free.

Into the ends of history undone in the world bygone and stumble on,

in the hands of men the world must defend itself from itself. By the 

eon's of strain.


Soon as...Daybreak as heaven's gate into history.

I'll follow the path of the king breaker's oath.

In his light I shall reach above the moon.

And catch the star that turned black, and find 

the silver shine!

Into the fate weaver's mind 

he already came to pass all that

has occurred. The summon

of eagles. The fall of

the serpent was false.


The legs of a cricket may sing a tune

from a harp that sings, and tired of this

masquerade dancing in the rain waiting

for the Sun to shine down on me!

Looking for a reason why to see

why the birds sing and the bees seem

to greet and time has always shown this.

In my yoke the hatred grows not for any mortal realm delights.

Any creature I have seen myself in it, and the earth does not

grow old with it's creations that are mere imitations of life,

compared to and dies the earth and Sun explodes with heat.

The dead planets look happier sometimes.

Than what fate weaves and what the mind shows.


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