To the madman in his room war is pretty from afar, full of noble motives and death's glory blown by winds of destiny no man can refuse.
From the mountaintops the madman crows, flattering the blood of battle as war's worshipers slash souls upon Satanic crosses.
Godless is the world, every beast and being a refugee in homeless wandering through boundless battlefields, seeking but never finding, praying but never healing, Gothic smoke burning arid lungs.
As pointless to fight as to not fight, goodness escapes the planet like air from a punctured balloon, desperate to be held onto, impossible to grab.
Laughing hyenas lead sheep off a cliff, calling it doom's victory to give hope to destroyers who sacrifice their precious children for their precious right to be angry.
Who can see the sun with polluted eyes? Who can see the Son with a polluted heart? What means mercy to the dead?
Unspoken words like an underground lava stream flow to a boiling release of slandered love to be denied no more.
Annihilated will be the annihilators, consumed will be the consumers, taken will be the takers, given will be the givers, dreamt will be the dreamers, loved will be the lovers.
In the darkest hour after the sun has sunk, hope must see beyond the horizon.
