The times stricken, it’s out stretch fingers break across the setting sun. Forever more churning, this never ending cycle of ours. A personification of recompense, the divergent malaise of the forthright enkindler of the engineered masses, weeps but a single solitary tear. For whence doth a man’s spirit ache so virulently estranged, a manifest so bleak and dolorous, the minds fathomless depths crash against the decaying era we hold so stern against our breast. Try as we might to never let it go, slowly its siphoned away, as it disintegrates all hope seems lost to a people who know not where to venture next. They imagine fantasies and false gods to restore their meaning, but as all lies, as sense of untruth poisons the air, its lingering stench feeds the dismay of the crying multitudes of petrified corpses. its hateful atmospheric presents enfeebles a once rich in spirit and proud people, grinding there memory into dust. These are dark times, these are the times of the great transgression, a treason upon all who hear it, rending there very souls, leaving even a magnum opus devoid of humanity. What would dante see in this era, after seeing the hell the old world created for them to believe. How many betrayers, how many hypocrites, how many false prophets….”doth the quiet yet frighten you” virgil would say. all but those unwilling to atone come here, for In this age of selfishness and narcissism.
hell remains empty.