I could rid this parking lot of all the
Dead-inside husks dripping dread from their eyes
By throwing millions of dollars into the air
And reanimating the dispirited lower class.
To quell the numb goosebumps of the tweaker,
To evaporate the alcohol from a drinker’s cup-
These endless cycles of addiction
Will end only with fire and brimstone.
…
We should know that pain teaches fear,
For we are terrified of lucid living.
The phantom pains borne from abuse
Ache like the real thing.
But, sympathy for the victim-
Oh, sympathy for man’s woes meddling in every delight-
I await the postmortem karmic balance
In an eternal paradise I once read about in a Book.