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Rated: E · Poetry · Dark · #1945107
Whose to be praise, The Father, Or the Children of dead kings;
Who's to be praise, The Father,

Or the Children of dead kings;

I don’t worship  form of men;

I embrace and cheeriest the infinite being;

Like hope, wisdom, and honestly as my spirit sings;

What had you heard?

Lies,

Why cried over basic things, when we can we do more than just simple things;

Created the unthinkable person,

Born as the living black soul  lace with seven deadly poison, they’d called sin;

walking with a human heart;

And it’s hurt, when I know I belong in the cold misty of it bliss dark;

yea I am one of God’s Children;

But I’m the fallen child, from day one I’m illing;

The sea, the first beast wheel within;

Wickedness, and I’m not please with the living

I rather see most lose than win, when reward is rarely nothing;

I  wasn’t cast out, I escaped from the garden

To find, to renew if I can, eden



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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1945107-Fallen-Child