And these unforgiving, festering souls
Have climbed up the walls of hysterical moulds.
To bring down the empire
Of dirt and bugs,
To strive for what can never be earned,
Only meant to be yearned.
The baritone of the sick and old,
The memoirs of people who’ve left this worldly abode.
The inhumanity so gloriously stored
In the pages of history books and diaries
Or in someone’s dilapidated memory of childhood.
I look at you in contemptuous agony,
I see through your soul.
Barren and empty like the desert
which was once a lovely seashore.
You have your own labels and antiqued ways of logical thinking,
How naive to think that even Heaven is ruled by an old King in a golden throne?
That angels in white robes await men who have not sinned
And that Beelzebub’s wrath awaits all those who’ve led a life not prescribed by hypocrital fanatics writing the “Book of God”.
How insane we must be?
To imagine the exact same camaraderie even after Death comes to take us away.
All we ever see is what we want to see.