Mr. Preacher

Tell me what I’ve not heard;
The end of the world?
Surely, everybody’s world ends.
At some point everything becomes nothing.

Tell me what I don’t know;
Death? Hell?
Everyday, I wake up to bells of the grave
And always expect to see the Cloaked Faceless Figure
At my front door, awaiting my leisurely embrace.

Mr. Preacher, for how long
Will you keep telling tales of a mere ideology;
A fantasy too good to be true.
Really, what is the possibility of a better life;
One without the sweet syrup of sorrow and carnality.

Salvation, you say,
Is my guarantee to a paradise,
My path to freedom;
Meanwhile you are enslaved
To a book written by the arms of the flesh.

You believe in a sanctuary after this life,
I believe only I can save me.
And if there’s ever an abyss,
It’s this one in my soul,
Where your words descend in an endless drop.

To save your head,
And to save my time,
Preach not to me, Mr. Preacher!
If I’m damned, then I’m damned.

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