Proceed the ritual of embalmment in accordance with the laws of nurturing and endless goodbyes that tuck in our dismantled spirits into a bow out.
This world couldn’t handle the scribes of the ancient tokens that predicted the fall of man — at such heights immeasurable with the contaminants of the woefully begotten and the instituted soldiers that are placed without favor.
We weep for them.
Poor lost brethren seeking refuge in the circus of humanity that refutes the unrequited disposition of those that beg for mercy as strangers stroll by without reckoning.
They are ignored and displaced. So much pain. A waste of agile futility that could make nations thrive another century.
The dead cry our for mercy. Not for them but for the ones that stole their fortune.
Heed the warning of the wanderers who plow the earth itching for the audience of our yielding. They want to tell the story of the killer in our eyes — but a baby in arms is theirs.
He reaches for the tons of weaponry and the weight of the mission catapults his senses into remission.
But it’s too late. Shots fired. Blood splatters your eyes and clears your vision.
Flights of angels lead you on with love and the forgiveness you couldn’t amass with us.
We shout your name and scream in the name of the One who bolts us into submission.
All we see is you.