What is this world?
What is man but a monster?
Though we are perceived as sinners and saints in our own rights.
Is it not destruction that is our master?
Do we not bow down to its every whim?
Fault is found in the most noble of desires,
For even those are done with a crooked mind.
Each of our own is born with the intention to kill.
We massacre , leaving no room for sympathy.
Taking absolute pleasure in others misfortune
As our lives hang by a loose thread.
Can you see a savior in the far distance?
Oh no, not I, for this world is spent.
Doom is written on the sheets of the bed we've made for ourselves
And there we shall lie
Until the hand that feeds brings forth the end of our time.