The world was afire, the populace would be lost
But the sole power that might save all of them
Was spent upon realms of the flesh and bones
Burnt remains as smoke covering the sky black
The generations sought pleasure without a cost
Built great altars to their flesh to every horizon
As they've planted a dead Moloch upon a throne
Dead outnumber the living, birthing plagues
Our fate has yet to be sealed, it is undecided
But this world will never see that time
It lingers there, in death's lavish hold
Waiting
“Unbeing dead isn't being alive.” E. E. Cummings
