kill your darlings.

WHISPER YOUR PRAYERS.

W I S H F U L

T H I N K I N G

AH, HOW SWEET IT WOULD BE TO SEE LITTLE BITS OF TEARS STREAMING DOWN THEIR FACES AS THEY BEG ON THEIR KNEES, WITH PRAYERS LINGERING IN THEIR LIPS, BEGGING FOR FORGIVENESS OF ALL THE SINS THEY HAVE COMMITTED.

THEY WERE ONCE LOVED BY ALL, HATED BY NONE, SEEN AS IMMORTALS, AS DEMIGODS, AS KINGS, AS HEROES, AS KNIGHTS ON SUPPOSEDLY SHINING ARMOR.

AND NOW HERE THEY ARE, NOT OBLIVIOUS TO THEIR LOOMING DOOM, WITH FEAR IN THEIR EYES AND WOUNDS ON THEIR SKIN.

AND AS THE HEAVY METAL DESIGNED TO SLASH KISSES THEIR NECKS ALL THEY CAN SAY ARE PRAYERS. PRAYERS TO A GOD WHOSE EXISTENCE HAS BEEN QUESTIONED.

"COME HERE HEATHEN, MEET YOUR MAKER."

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note: this is a prelude to the first part of this poetry. it is a collection, so there would be many like it (but not quite) amongst it.