This poem reflects some of my views on religion.
What is where and where is when?
When dose it begin and when dose it end?
How do we know when to know or leave good enough alone?
How long is the end of the road?
The tree casts shadows on the woods floor where the whore sleeps on her pilliows
made from mushrooms and there’s no way out.
There is no door.
Even the windows are locked and the beast has the key.
It’s on a chain made of 18k gold.
His scales are rapped around it tight!
So tight that sometimes they bleed all day and night.
Its blood filled the pool and all the children of the world will swim in its stench!
They will all die twice.
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