The Soul is Not even Real. A man-made Convention from fear. Just as religion and divinity, Are works of fiction. For god is already dead.
The acrid smell of aged *****, lingers As I stare drearily out my bedroom window. I contemplate antiquated men in Smokey backrooms, Spinning and weaving the most brilliant lie, Which has ever been conceived.
I wrote this when I had lost my faith, though it is starting to retake hold in my life, I thought I would still share.