(no subject)
Turn your weathered hands from the desolate sea. There is only ruin for us here now. Kneel not in despair. The war you've waged on earth will not bring you retribution. So what of your all-knowing, ever-loving, war machine. Bring forth the heads of the heretics. For miles to come you shall heed the warning of a thousand dead. Our time is drawing near. Oh, humanity. What shall become of us once we've grown too smart to speak with God? What shall become of the churning gears of the singing death machine. Tear the light from our lives. I cup my ears with trembling hands, but still I can see them on their murderous march for war. When we fall to their blades we shall replenish the Earth. Turn my corpse to the soil so that our children may wage war on Earth again, and again. What will become of us once we've grown too smart to speak with God? Salvation.