BELIEF WRITING

I am constantly asking myself questions. Am I really the one chosen by judgmental vengeance to share with castaways in an unknown, yet common Destiny fate? It's hardly a romantic time to be out for a trip. Stomach-churning, limb-breaking end-length no nasty rain drumming furiously outside. 

Already the honeyed joy of a proud future has passed me by. Turncoat preachers in grateful scraps continue to holy poison the legacies of cultures daily. That two times two is often five, not four. That the man who treads the withered-drying line of the earth cannot make enough money even when stretched to the yoke. Taxes or overheads will rob him as well as any greedy usurer. 

What could I have wanted all these years? My memories are shattered like broken glass, and my crying childish self can only understand the confused speeches of my dreams - the endless, merging, clouded waves murmur in my soul the cry: "Why can't one of the gallows flowers be united in their will?" 

Do they fear for their cheap, petty, censored-careers, or for the public outcry?! If there is any justice left in the world, as a sieve with holes in it, it will run out early, or human empathy will go dormant. Goodness while November's croaking messengers pull their selfishly murderous marches over our heads. In the stars of eyes little sneaking rays sneak through. Perhaps a sick, gullible man's hope-bright, sad eyes. - Even now, daily, the seven-stringed, stubborn grief wounds me. The dying feeling hurts: is this how it should be?!