The Ballad of Mind and Soul

Imaginary, lines are always spent, in the thousand, birds fly across horizons terrified, these ghosts are always there, to catch every tear, every drop of sweat, that pours down our souls face, was it ever staring into a reflection of itself, or being stared at by the devil itself, burns unto us an image, of heaven in flames, still we seek to arrive, at the pearly red, burning gates, where he is waiting with a list, of every soul he claims and claimed with every message, of deceit, only a few of us heard it for what it was, but we are supposed outcasts, exiled, left to linger all eternity under our gods wings, to take comfort from the shadows who gave up on humanity, many years ago, Imaginary lines exist, but are we part of some bigger imagination...