The reality of an external life of perdition from the womb
is purposefully impervious to the memory
This is where gratefulness truly stems
A postcard picture of a view of eight embryo's
howling in indescribable pain is too much for some to observe
Catapulted around like unwanted withered leaves
from a tree that once sustained them
Raked up by a life of constant negativity and despondency
The damage is incalculable to what ever higher force of judgement there may be
I would like to say that does not bother me
But i am jaded trying to convince myself of that
What is the forfeit for laying claim to a phlegmatic bucket of screaming embryo's?
Even now the pretence of your acknowledgement of them is unbearably repugnant
How is it that intelligible tasks like loving,sometimes simply just existing
are too much for those credulous adults to bear?
Yet for you, it appears to be a blissful frivolously laid road of obtainable happiness
Ah but when you are hugged by the vision of death
You will truly know the damage you have done
When you can hear the eight angelic embryo's
Digesting your flesh and ripping your subhuman merciless body into snippets of their memories
You will not awake in a place of serenity
You will upend that bucket and asphyxiate in the love aborted babies that you beget!