Hymn EverlastingDacra


When I think back, in the torrid wasteland
in my wretched being, a sentient, rose, I guess,
still fills the air with a stale splatter.

And perhaps, one day, the eternal affairs
Of wretches like you and I,
And Death and God, and all those
Petty flying demons, will surface and realize

That biting words bite no more than a toothless dog
In the face of nonexistence
That corruption is purely relative
And your heart is purely riling.