One race survives the wreckoning,

chosen to lead the world,

follow the brightest star,

there shall be the heart of his deed

not yet done, a number unknown

until spoken, watching all, we know not

where, the so called god sends his angels

of fire to mark our days for death,

like puppets, held down by the myth

of uncertainity, sometimes believing,

sometimes doubting if the so called

world is real or is rather the dream of some murdering

psychopath, who loves to relish in the cracking of bones

and the weeping of women; laughing in the halls of heaven

or hell, casting lots of woe unto his creation, breathing fire

like a dragon, impregnating the insipid fools with his propaganda,

spinning the web, making sure no one escapes his vision of complete



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