Noisome ugly corpses of their final memories Which they show to us create this lie that someone lives. Death is not a moment when your soul's going away, It exists with you from your begining every day.
Sorrow takes away Thinking. You obey To your silent ghosts, This nostalgia costs your sense of real Purposes. Until You doze off in past Present will be last What you agree to trust.
Imagery.
Mentors used Our trusting minds To become self-titled gods, And we never had doubts. Empty inside, Competent outside, They tell us about life, but they don't live anymore!
Story where word 'paradise' means purgatory. I learned this sick poem very well: Living in the past is self-made hell. I chose my religion - faith in hands That I had to build Heaven's entrance. Arrogant look wandered in my eyes And with frenzy I created ties That blinded my mind. I escaped from my Putrified nightmares, But have not noticed That the main is near. Time's ghastly sincere. Only thought that you Must settle in brain - You HAVE TO wear your SHROUD!