In the beginning...
That's how it always starts,
isn't it?

The dogs of war,
Barking inside,
burning in the oven of your own
poor, poor heart.

But they call not for gunfire,
or the shrapnel of a thousand bombs,
nay just the bleeding pain,
of your lovers'
soul torn 'part.

And of course, in the beginning,
as you clutch your head,
wishin' for a new start,
there is no comfort given,
nor grace delivered,
upon the atheists so marked,
and He watches with a devil's glee,
all compassionate, destructively.

We walk therefore,
to the beach, and walk furthermore,
into the ocean, where there is no breeze,
and we walk farther still blinded by what you cannot see,
until the water lies over you, drowning,
Babylon's little *****.
But you walk further still, because the water does not nurture,
and you walk further still because the water will not ****,
And you walk into the abyss,
'Til the dogs no longer roar...
When even they cannot reach you,
and you get what you searched for,
peace.

But peace is a lie.
A lie we call loneliness,
brought up in the passivity,
of man now long broken.
For not all journeys are good.
Not all stories have heroes.
Not all poems rhyme.
And sometimes...
Everybody dies,
In the beginning.