Count not
The whispy words
That are formed
In the idealist mind;
A solitary thought
Shows the brink
Of perfect distruction
Evade the helping hands
Of ill-praised saints,
Their need to do good
Drops bloodied tears
Into the earth, giving
The father a womb
And so he can creat
A newly born child
With fair hair and
Angelic blue eyes
Devil’s little angel
Will lavish in our screams