Vague Fatality
I see him there,elbows to his knees.
Washing God's floor with the sacred
fluid of his apologies.
He is heard, but it's the empty what ifs
that haunt the answer, and as each atomic blast
litters the pavement; he pictures his demons
being crushed bellow.
If mercy were vindication he'd be a tortured
soldier of fortune. Whimpering behind their abuse;
portals where his child takes refuge.
A banging, angry enemy lingers forever
between two temples. Is it belief,
or hatred?
Freedom has no equal, but an entangled man,
worships his pointless endeavor..
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