My drill spins;
Each turn A measure of Productivity.
This burning lance draws infinitely closer to my core
I crave truth;
Shrouded within the original fire, Ingenuity
A holy blaze beacons me forward, endlessly consuming more.
Sinful martyrs pray;
They whisper hoping to inspire veneration.
Their redemptive mantra echoes into a limitless abyss.
Virtuous criminals plunder;
We shout out demanding sincere absolution.
Our foundation vindicates us granting beneficent men eternal bliss.
A swordsmen wonders:
Searching for meaning through unyielding fortitude
Unmatched skill honed for perpetual conflict with no motive
The storyteller waits
He seeks to write A Etude
His pen's fecundity struggling to birth words with votive.
YOU ARE READING
Holy Fire
Poetrya poem written as a rant of a Madman told with vigar and spite ultimately changing nothing.
