Oh God of the ancient book, are you proud of us?
How we twist your precious life until it breaks
Have you abandoned us?
Or worse have you gathered us up
Like a mother would a four year old child
to hold us until we die of asphyxiation
Are you afraid of us?
Oh God of the hard wood church, do you even know we exist?
Or have you created a new universe to play in.
Let me shout it from the highest tree:
No No No No No!!!!!
Poor little Shura, only four, when she was held and Mothered,
Grasped so tight by the talons of “Evil” until she smothered,
Has innocence ever born a more beautiful face?
It seems that beauty cannot live long in this place.