As if waiting for The Echo


Angels know a Million things The Coded Genes that fix their Wings,

Devils know a Thousand Lands Of Poison Tongues and Idle Hands.


Knowing’s not the thing to fear when Thunders far there’s Lightening near,

The Reapers Scythe lurks in the gaps between the Contours of our Maps.


After Smiles and Shaken Hands Serpents loose their Bloody Plans,

While Dogs of War attend their Wounds Havoc Slips to Rage too soon.


There’s no-one Guarding at the Gates where Saints and Sinners Congregate,

They’re Far to busy Preaching Hate to recognize their Brain Washed State.


As Word on Word the Pulpits Fall into their Pits go One and All,

Their Little Voices Hollowed out no matter how they Scream and Shout


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