Decayed, despaired, destroyed after years
of abuse at the claws of a monster,
a broken state of mind reinforced by
a broken state of being, unable to prosper.
Spoken in Satan’s charming tongue,
claws and curses shift into golden graceful wings.
Our saviours, who graciously fix your misbehaviours for little more than
the price of your essence.
Streets paved with the blood of their builders
drawn surely by the saviours who deemed themselves
superiors.
Trade shackles and whips
for graves and scripts,
these cells and crumbling walls cultivated by
countless generations,
immersed in our befitting
fortress
a result of our consequential
coercion
Aggression, an overall lack of perfection,
infused with our DNA.
Grow deluded, refined by delusion
assured by such saviors
their format excelles our own, invoking exclusion.
Adopt into the belief that you’ve truly been saved,
a motion that will most certainly forge the way to your grave.