Decayed, despaired, destroyed after years
of abuse at the claws of a monster,
a broken state of mind reinforced by
a broken state of being, unable to prosper.
Spoken in Satan's charming tongue,
claws and curses shift into golden graceful wings,
our saviors, who graciously fix your misbehavior for little more than
the price of your essence.
Streets paved with the blood of their builders
drawn surely by the saviors who deemed themselves
Trade shackles and whips
for graves and scripts,
these cells and crumbling walls cultivated by
countless generations,
immersed in our befitting
a result of our consequential
Aggression, an overall lack of perfection,
infused with our DNA.
Grow deluded, refined by delusion
assured by such saviors,
their format excelled our own, invoking exclusion.
Adopt into the belief that you've truly been saved,
a motion that will most certainly forge the way to your grave.

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