The ignorant and those who don't care,
Those who are faithful but in despair.
Listen to the saint who speak of the apocalypse.
Often sad of being duped in famine or demise.
Ruler of the curse written to suck souls,
To pain and burn the forgiven, to make holes.
Here would lie the brotherhood of the making
Of boring truth killed by front-liners.
And if the dead were to speak in verses than speech
Would seek this ignorance and burn the lies.
Rays from a resplendent dusk of orange and red.
Could strike the sleeping children's eyes on bed.
But as they say, the modern Babylon would burn,
Between yearning cries and deliveries of Christmas.
Confused are still who writes on the shroud,
The flaming sword would fly ever on the clouds.