Fearing the faith,
Scared of most love.
They bring understanding,
But are rejected as foes.

They try not to grimace,
To whine or complain,
As it uncovers the stitches of sin.
And if, indeed, they begin to slack off,
They must sew their weaknesses shut.
And though pain undesired,
It shall, with force,
Be used in an instant,
To rip, flay, and humble their souls.

And although they instate it,
Its effects won't fade,
As it gives way to a horrible gloom.
Though too long without a touch,
From Mother Pain,
And their Beings will twist,
Becoming as sickly and vile,
As the ****, that around them decays.

So as can be seen, alarm is unneeded,
They wish to bring us no harm.

But only to help us,
To harvest the fruits,
Of our labors, we've since, forgotten.

Even still, we're blind to their kindness,
We see them as unworthy pests.
And as their presence is no longer welcome,
They disappear on the winds breath.
Regrets we had many, and go back we could not,
And we all went downward, again.

As we fell into the graves,
We had dug for ourselves,
We thought, "Maybe they meant well?"
Alas, mattered not, as we all found out,
As we fell to the depths of our own filth.
And as we burned, the Imps could not help,
But to pity our fate.

And after a sigh, and a shake of the head,
They got on with the rest of their existence.
And as the winds and tides of time
Washed over the empty, barren land of thought,
Nothing was left, no one to remember.
And in a blink, we were less than the dusts.