i see a long line
made of lunatic, inebriate saints—
chanting orisons
with their haloes and white robes—
racing to the sea
screaming and preaching—
exchanging blows
for the blood of the ******—
illuding one another
for the salvation they thirst—
saying, i am one
to ascend the divine nirvana.

am i now a heathen?
for orisons should not pierce the ears—
yet i am dead sick
thus i pray for and on my own—
for the guts to try
ending the hellish havoc.

and when i finally screamed
sets of vile eyes, fangs and weapons—
smiled at me.