What acclaim is there for the man who breaks the heart of a *****?
What worthwhile service can assuage the soul so torn in malcontent. He prophesies of Eden telling Eve to hide her shame in lieu of his land perfected. "What other hell do you threaten?" He claims, "Fire! Fire!" But her lungs hold smoke to keep hands from shaking breaking spirits and homes as Priest rushes to the safety of Soap Box lightheaded from the height.
What solace is there for the arsonist in the convent?
His speech its own blend of herbs and spices; sour prepositions and capsaicin soaked subjects caught in the heat of judgment like some wrathful deity, holier than thou. Resisting respite despite facing the fire of his deeds, the innocent frolic, carefree. He finds he is the tinder, caught in his conflagration.
What pity have we for the lost life of kings?*
Caught between revelries and pomp, caustic circumstantial froth from his echelon elect as we revel in flames and fight *** with sins. You know these things, see them, taste them. Spiteful planet, we adore thee, eschewing humanity with piety and privilege and soft-spoken actions wont to liberate the conscience.
Sing me the song of the sword and I won't say a word.