The City of Dis (an original poem)

Please manipulate these delicate shadows,
To deliriously swim in death,
Like the symphony of life’s final whisper,
Telling,
"Together none will worship."


Assist to those with vacant veins and dead eyes,
To fly from the souls of the living,
Like the circadian rhythm of a heart,
Warning, “Without this, we all will fail.”

Torture your tears to show the gray emotion,
That strives to cure the belief system,
Who controls the mass to her fullest extinction,
Asking, “Why it is your breath grows cold?”

Create the distance between heaven and hell,
And separate the ancient deity.
All of reality is contained within a beast,
Screaming, “Death is a rite of passage.”



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