I’m a petrified accumulation of grief and anger.

Invigorated by the fantasy of celestial being, mythology, fairytales were ever so alive in the resplendent way. All these incandescent gods, human-like gods, hand-made fictional gods, so beautifully written, they can’t clear your guilty conscience.

Humans superciliously let ourselves believe we are god’s greatest symphony, paragon of all creatures. The thought of not being above to dominate over the power of nature, overwhelm us to an edge of desperation; I can smell the thirst for oil, thirst for blood.

From Prometheus’ theft of fire to the atonement of Jesus, who deemed us worthy enough for these Gods to sacrifice themselves for us?

Driven by the faultiness in our souls, greed, desire, lust- in a cascade of red, the wolves flood the street in the blood of our own kind, drowning sheep gasping for air. Bodies are worthless under badges and machine guns. The wolves try to accuse the sheep of hatred and barbarism- all of which are hideous white value!

No one looks up anymore, the bombs keep falling.

Bullets and bombs stuff the banks, banks boost the party ranks. They terrorise, they brutalise, they colonise. Knife nine inches deep into the sheep’s back, no clotting, no healing. Million innocent souls in hearses, names etched in the graves. Whispered fate, lives as fragile as a layer of flimsy ice. Gold crescendo silencing red cries, ferocious tempests sweeping the land, the blood shed upon the ground as Jesus weeps for us.

Will you listen to the fascists sing!

They sing, 
“And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.”

They sing,
“Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”

Knee deep in blood they sing! Walking with a trail of dead bodies they sing! Priests pressing into little boys they sing! Over the cries of widows and heartbroken mothers they sing!

Diabolical wolves go to church, worship God and His morals with wryly smiles. They thrive in the land of hypocrisy, turning the Holy Bible into the greatest blood stained ideological weapon. With heart as cold as the lunar night, the atonement of Christ cannot wash away the blood on their claws and the iron taste in their mouths.

I spit fire because we are in dire.

The Earth is ripening. Body parts tangled in barbed wires, hanging on thorny fences. Flames of war burning across the world, ashes in the air. Choking on the smoke that fills our home, hypothetical numbers turn into solid tombstones. I walk with mourning in my bones.

Bloodshed pollutes the land and atonement cannot be made for the land on which blood has been shed except by the blood of the one who shed it.

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