Imagination

Imagination Surfico Be Not Afraid ​Just a kid in the backyard with a stick in his hand turning on his imagination and conquering the land. ​The driveway is a runway of scorched, gray heat, I climb the iron ladder to the pilot’s seat. The plastic hatch locks with a pressurized snap, The backyard terrain is a digital map. The shadows are creeping, a code-driven death, I see their movement in the mech's heavy breath. Engage the reactors, the turbine begins— Where the concrete stops is where the slaughter wins. ​A hundred souls extinguished in a single, sweeping arc, As lightning splits the heavens and ignites the sudden dark. The thunder claims the silence while the bodies turn to bone, A winter made of falling ash is all the wind has shown. ​I mount the beast where the garden grass ends, The spine of the dragon under my shadow bends. I’m locked in the saddle of leather and scale, As we soar past the fence where the sunlight is pale. He opens his jaws, a furnace of gold, The inferno breath turns the green into mold. A river of fire sweeps the lawn in a tide, There is nowhere for legions of monsters to hide. ​A hundred souls extinguished in a single, sweeping arc, As lightning splits the heavens and ignites the sudden dark. The thunder claims the silence while the bodies turn to bone, A winter made of falling ash is all the wind has shown. ​The porch is the fortress, the stairs are the wall, I stand at the ramparts and watch the rain fall. The garden snakes coil like serpents of old, As the enemy gathers, aggressive and bold. I signal the archers from the deck's wooden height, A thousand black arrows take wing in the light. They sweep through the ranks like a scythe through the grain, To bury the shadows in a harvest of pain. ​A hundred souls extinguished in a single, sweeping arc, As lightning splits the heavens and ignites the sudden dark. The thunder claims the silence while the bodies turn to bone, A winter made of falling ash is all the wind has shown. ​The visor is cracked. The dragon is still. The fortress is broken by the weight of my will. Three wars in an afternoon—ghosts in the mud, My sneakers are soaked in a phantom of blood. I’m leaning on wood that was once a great blade, The hero of monsters, the king of the shade. ​A hundred souls extinguished in a single, sweeping arc, As lightning splits the heavens and ignites the sudden dark. The thunder claims the silence while the bodies turn to bone, A winter made of falling ash is all the wind has shown. ​The sun hits the fence... the phantoms retreat. I drag my tired spirit on the hot, dry concrete. The armor is gone. The dragon is dead. The shadows of giants are all in my head.