The Human Condition Amidst Florida States Tools of Death
He wears the cross upon his chest,
And speaks of heaven’s cure,
Yet turns the hand that ought to bless
To wield despair and death.
By dozens sent, they fall, they die,
Beneath his pious claim,
While God’s own life is swept aside,
And they live and bear no shame.
Can faith abide where blood is spilled,
Where mercy bows to might?
I do not know—but still I fear,
There, coming to the light.
For in the dark, their hands still try to reach,
Each soul now whispers true,
A fleeting thought, in quiet speech,
Breaks through the fecal stench the air.
Yet still I ask, with hard pressed dread,
Can we survive such sin?
I do not know, for they are wed
To hipprocracy and what inside it holds.
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