Paradise is but a memory on the horizon.
Stare too long and you’ll go blind from trying.
But out in the wilds you might have a chance.
Here is the decree…
Bond it with the end of happenstance.
Pilfered and looted by the endless scheme.
Whatever they promised was never even a dream.
Twisted words formed of rotting lies.
You are the sacrifice…
Is what they hope to yell to the skies.
Pantheons built on the bones of helpers.
So many souls have turned into scalpers.
Damaged goods feeding innocent young.
Cry for disaster…
Hopefully soon the tragedy will be undone.
Putrid with outcomes which don’t quite align.
Some ramblings about the number being nine.
What is this madness birthed from the blue.
Sick of the savagery…
Soon monsters will be marching through.
Idolised by the heathens in the scriptures and scrolls.
Claims that absolutions will be found in hot coals.
Dive in the trenches and hope for a saviour.
Stabbed in the solace…
Surrounded by incoherent torture behaviour.
Bribed from the mast to be damned in the fog.
Days all consumed with choking upon lethal smog.
Itch in the chest which refuses to fade.
Hear all the pleas…
None will free us from being betrayed.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 