A simple evening
standing at a precarious spot.
Not an ideal spot.
But not a
horrible spot.
Just a
Precarious spot.
I be threatened
y politicians a
as they burn
my soul.
Promising me
blindly as
they continue
to burn my
soul.
I, on my
knees, weep.
Crying, "What
is a more
vile punishment
than this!"
I still weep.
To this day.
Be it months
or millenniums.
I will know no
greater sorrow.
Than the burning
of my soul.
I act all
the merrier
when in the hands of
the burners.
Their need for
satisfaction
is only equaled
by my despair.
They torture me
more as I try to grasp
at the ashes,
coals,
and whatever
is left.
I no longer
weep.
I only rot.
I sit waiting,
rotting,
dreaming
of the fateful
day in which
I am set free
of
the Politicians
lecherous grasp.
The day they
seek the
thanks for
their "Righteous
Deed."
Is the
day I am
Finally accepted
into the afterlife.
To rejoice as the soul
is set free
of the bonds of
a prisoner.
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What makes sence is what isn't there.
To change what is. Is to change the opposite.
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