So blind with pride, can't even match the wing shape
to the hallowed highs scribbled on soft birthright.
Perceived divine was a sanctum for cloud rats.
Their squeaked delight never seen past Father's hate.

Lifting sharp time only to examine what years obscured.
Myopic fixation to the witworn plan that treasure provides,
that jigsaw past found from resealed shards lost in tragic
woes for a future only obtained through maladies's cure.

Every break from expectation ignites rage to tantrum.
Pushing possibilities off by frustration for scorn's sake.
Seeing halo's lack as reason to start Armageddon's fight,
ignoring how conviction's rubble leaves no sanctum.