The preacher-man is screaming that God is mad at thee.
The madman is screeching that God is made of me.
The broken man is praying to the God that's underneath.
The beast beneath is saying that God made man his sheath.

So much hurt upon this earth with no fire left to warm the hearth on which we curl up to watch the world turn off at the end of every day and the beginning of a new breed of life. No light. No Reason. Just a couple of teenagers about to embark on some treason. I miss the night.
That stench. That rotten smell. Those tired eyes. An endless well.
Beauty in the eye indeed. Beauty in the eyes of me.

Smoke rose and blood boiled, all the while our egos toiled. There are a hell of a lot of things I wish to recoil, but ******* I miss the night. The day may illuminate the best of us but the dark shows what's left in the rest of us. What sits in the shadow right next to us. What sinks beneath the skin past the pests and pus.  Decay to your dismay may just be a diss to the day you clapped your hands together to pray for the outcome of the game you play to be one that results in someone else's pain. Why God? You say. Whose God? Oh My God. No, not today. I'll wait for the night to get my hand *****.