Cult

Be stoked, the ire of frivolous men    
Who gamble people’s lives,  
And set ablaze the world to shine    
A pyre on the horizon.    
    
Engulfed in flames    
Of decadence,    
How fiercely that it grows,    
And sends upon    
The hills and troughs    
A snow    
Of kindling embers.    
   
Forgotten are the natural order,    
Who we are, or what we’ve lost,    
But remembered are the acts of horrors,    
But only after  
They have happened.    
   
Repent  
Ye sinless,    
For the crimes committed    
By the hands    
Who lit the way,    
And cast a gaze away    
Or dare    
Be blinded by their    
Raze.    
   
Instead,    
We all should bow our heads,    
Smile and be thankful,    
For we, the age of man,    
Be blessed,    
As the fatalist’s disciples.