• I walk down a gruesome alley for reasons unknown to myself, however, as I walked, a poor beggar approaches me. He speaks of gruesome thoughts…

    Many a thought of rot and death hath come.
    Bodies pile inside the alternate reality that is fantasy.
    Not a pill to stop it nor control it,
    It is futile…

    I have not always been this way! The poor beggar speaks,
    For man hath not born with such thoughts.
    Yet someone nor something be responsible for my madness…

    Life after death is a myth! The poor beggar speaks.
    For thee hast not seen proof of souls past
    As they stand in front of me as we speak…

    We have seen the wrath of Christ our King! The poor beggar speaks.
    For none shall enter the gates of Saint Peter
    Not anymore at least…

    Unless not a soul on this earth is silver and innocent, the poor beggar speaks, then life as we know it is doomed!

    At this the poor beggar scampered away to find a new life to share grief and woe.
    His belief be help shall never come.
    Not an oceansoul left on thou plant worthy of the saints
    Not a single one…

    However such belief is contemptible,
    To think that no one alive or dead is worthy. Still