Words of long ago
Burn to the God of War,
And return as the King of Hell,
To imprint scars,
Shaped like birthmarks.
The newborn cries,
Not from fresh air bursting its lungs,
But from the birthmarks,
Soaked in black.
“The scars of the past,
Become the scars of the future,”
Says the Devil.
“Unless we break the cycle,”
Whispers the Angel.
