A Capite ad Calcem (From Head to Heel)

There was once a pitch black river,
A river which did not thrive.
It choked the land and all around,
So none who passed survive.

The men who toppled forward,
To the screaming cold of death,
Tinted the water blood red,
As they let sink one last breath.

The glowing in the distance,
As the embers dance so free,
Expulsion of all feeling,
As the river reflects but me;
The fire spreads ambition,
For man and mind to see,
But in this age of afluenza,
Man has all but glee.

This river sits so dormant,
Down on mother natures lap;
A testament to all that's died,
To a perpetually shifting map.

This fire won't fall short,
Until it's job is said and done;
And even once that's over,
It's but a beginning to 'the fun.'
Vengeance in its iron,
Will twist to all degrees;
Until the arsonist comes to heel,
And his life; how fast it flees.

Life seems so surreal,
When you wake to none but screams;
The glistening of a gun barrel,
Reality splits at the seams.
To stay alive at gunpoint,
Is not alive at all;
All that's left is conviction,
And an ever-fading call.

That river; oh how still it was,
On that fateful summer night;
When the real men got off their knees,
And fought their final fight.

"Sors Ventus Temerarus."
Fortune Favors the Bold.