Whatever grace,
Benevolence is lost to our inhumane Carpe golden Diem nature, Seizing curses and ignoring misery, This is the plot that within our still hearts remains!
We're as wounded flies, Bing theft drinking hope through vampiric fangs between which we're seething a heritage of desperate prejudice!
We look in the mirror to see photo illegitimate shopped phantom by way of surgery the reflection may exist, Shame pock tattoo scar marks the fragile haemorrhaging skin we're moth existing within, We've forgotten acceptance's greatest conviction... To find hope for all amidst the creeping apathy sickness we've conscience graft towards one another.
In lieu of our participation in,
Other kinds of violence
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