His wings flouted astride, asunder the darkness which it spread on each feather's wings. The taunter of range and the bullet heaver of the past, halts his bow and kisses his yet be blooded arrows on each dear friend's barren and mocking face. Each one stands at attention, laying a greet to the bloody street, the outrage and the madness that has forsaken the small and gilded classes defiles them as humorous and absurdly. The Black Archer mocks the fishes and the sardines laying his hands into a vanished state, the onlookers can look no more as the team defiling might spread like a viral cannabis, but in the catastrophe of madding rage, The Black Archer becomes in-titled with a title his arrows had given others, the death of the O so hearty Obliteration, the plagues of earth. Cometh the morrow, and the sorrow wouldst subside, for it surly have subsided into a voided humorous past, and the arrows that once left the streets bloody, were all the pity of the arrows that fly by day.
[Inspired by a team killing i had, sadly witnessed, Pm me online if need be any talks or "Inspiration" Hah! At the random fish Gerrant]
