Billions of years in the making evolving from beautiful star dust. The earth at its knees, begging to be rescued from our Icarus pitfall.
In the grand scheme we are nil yet we overrule with tyranny using a tight heart and non existent morality. We praise to the hollow idols ad nauseam for them to cleanse us of our wrong doing, give us hope but they are embodiment of failure.
The Omens are here loud and clear we are Martyr(s) of the soil, beating the lands. We await rescission from the first bang, we have driven ourselves beneath dead oceans into the deepest echoing depths from which we cannot return from; a fall to opprobrium. There must be a confronting of entropy so we must push forward to a new incline before our cessation.
On a full moons night rage will induce, with a clenched fist Clutching revulsion, wearing a new mask of the satyr, changing into the lycanthrope. weight of emptiness making the imperious weak; we are not perfect rulers but defaeco rulers, vermis, morally withered and obsolete.
We are the destroyers of all the universe should look at us in Odium. The coming of genocide:
Everything is Fire