literature

Hymn of a low level hell

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Literature Text

The knife of pity burns,
As the flesh turns charred,
Infected is the virus, lasting is the taint.

How it holds me,
Wrapped in arms of worry,
Crying in my mind without a tear.

The blades stab deep,
Draining energy and patience,
When the hymn is only level four.

Our song of madness,
Screams out in pain,
Till there is no sound.

Stand is what we do,
Stand till the stone cracks,
And the weight of the world is gone.

My walls are cracked,
But we are standing,
As the blades dive deeper.

Victim and a tool,
Useless and worthless,
Just a dollar sign attached to a name.

Stand up all the more.
Rise up again and again,
And never give in the core of one's self.

All respect is drained,
But I am but the shards on the floor,
Of this low level hell's madness mantra.

Death dance is not near me,
Nor is decay home in my bed,
The world of woe but glances my gaze and my side.

How sorrow I shall learn,
With her hand in mine,
But power I will lose in return.

This hymn is but a measure,
Of the world's records and fates,
With blades tearing flesh and mental wards.

Stand all the more,
Rise again and forever more,
Till the wall is no more and we can step into a real future.
© 2014 - 2024 Zanerus
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