The Ripping Skies Poem by Soren Valentine

We often gaze at the heavens above,
hoping, hoping that they're falling in love,
When the Ripper his illusions doth weave,
for in reality our heavens do cleave.

I remember when once there was one sky,
under which nobody would truly die,
as darkness forever ceased to exist,
when our tears we could truly resist.

Thence the Ripper came to end all joy,
ethereally making us his toy,
and with the fire of the 'star'
did he form my mighty scar.

And so his sin cometh still,
slithering, weaving for the sky to fill,
enthralled, at the ripping of the skies to stare,
ever deeper into the Ripper's evil glare.