His soul on fire, it's as bright as day.
Screaming from the depths of Sheol yelling,
In which his stomach both pushed and pulled.
His life hung by a thread, like Spiders playing with
As high as a Hawk, that soars through the air.
As Crocs in the swamp, looking to prepare.
Are we right in our own minds?
Why can't we choose when to die?
For the love of truth, I will continue to enact.
For the love of which we count our breaths.
The Prince of Air determined to lose.
To only incarnate back into a fool.
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