There's no sense in coincidence.
But I found the perfect book for you,
the same day I read your obituary in
the newspaper. These reading materials kept on a locked ward.
You kept buried under ground,
like a secret turmoil your family
could not bear with.
The one you also spoke of.
But that is irony.
Something I do believe in.
"Am I God?"
"I've killed people. I've killed you twice today. Are you God?"
You weren't afraid of your shadow.
But rather the people in the sky.
The peers walking, talking, doing
what they do best.
Dissect the innocent.
Disengage humanity.
Regress until broken,
until shattered,
until sand.
"Am I God?"
You aren't, a virgin's son.
Nietzsche was correct.
God is dead.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
There's no sense in coincidence.
But I found the perfect book for you,
the same day I read your obituary in
the newspaper. These reading materials kept on a locked ward.
You kept buried under ground,
like a secret turmoil your family
could not bear with.
The one you also spoke of.
But that is irony.
Something I do believe in.
"Am I God?"
"I've killed people. I've killed you twice today. Are you God?"
You weren't afraid of your shadow.
But rather the people in the sky.
The peers walking, talking, doing
what they do best.
Dissect the innocent.
Disengage humanity.
Regress until broken,
until shattered,
until sand.
"Am I God?"
You aren't, a virgin's son.
Nietzsche was correct.
God is dead.
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