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Mortem

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Death is real, real as the decay of ancient art Death is real, more real than the fade of a heart Death is real, as real as the families it tears apart Death is real, real as old grapes turning sweet then tart
Death is the uninvited guest, one that we all let in Whether we want it to or not, in spite of our sin May we be good, may we be not, may we be good within Death follows us from where we end to where we begin
Fallen apostates cry out for help, but none shall aid them Religious zealots humor themselves at those they condemn As the victim chokes on his own blood, his own phlegm Cloth tears as he reaches and grasps thorns by the hem
The forsaken shall be left nameless, beneath a bed of sand Their lives taken at the behest of the reaper’s hand For, if life shall continue, a sacrifice is what they demand Or, so the zealots claim as it has been foretold and planned
Blood as it drips from the pierced hand by the thorn The savior’s head glows crimson with the crown he must adorn The past sacrifice of eve…

The Blindfolded Soul

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