It's this ism of schism,
And lost in racism with perpetuated choatic cataclysm.
This fixation with complication,
And devotion to destruction.
Lines of grape vine leading to purely deluded wine,
What was devine shine left in oh so decline of our prime.
This determination to provocation,
With invocation to division.
Stuck in the darkness becoming blind,
So **** blind by our hate filthy grime of our sinful crime.
It is our limitation to our self infliction,
For all action comes with reaction.
Time and time again feast dine not knowing our fine line,
To define what is right of mine,
this line this line pathway to beyonder.
To build this rotten fruition,
It is but infliction leading to degregation.
What is this demoralizing scene, hatred, digression of the old days displayed among our mist?
My faith in humanity is like a vine line, and so often as time passing by, the line that held my faith has thinned to hold that line.
