This is a world of slaughter, a timeless cycle of nothing 

as the children begin to suffer and you watch them with laughter 

the light from their eyes fading and fading into a hopeless fighter 

and you feel the satisfaction of their souls becoming 

the dust of a shattering memories and you began mocking 

and yet this the work of only you, the writer 

who begins the story the same, a wingless reminder  

of the desperate howls of the one wo is never loving 

This is your world of a red massacre, painting your sight with wine 

a cry of mercy and forgiveness is not heard from their ears 

the outstretched arm that is left forgotten 

and my laughter begins to fill the world with the divine 

of you suffering for years and years 

and the children watch your world of pleasure rotten