The Theft of Moral Defense

Dawn crests the peaks of barren refuse, enthralling masses and demanding rations of passion from muck Stuck into walls, hanging out halfway, suspended by calls of anguish and hate - Little does it matter for our pain and thoughts Little does it falter in it’s saintly rot And little does it rain down pleasure atop rocks - Towering pulses in cavernous chests booming altering noises of gloomy doom and distress decompression decompress - Such success in sessions of secessions thought best bring messy manipulations of emotions and stress Blessedly pressing the rest into vests of blasting intent and the buying of souls not spent The buying of souls not spent The theft of moral defense The theft of moral defense