Paris is the Springtime for her, damned cold drops here
Limitless Possibilities for him, for us Puddles of probabilities
Priests drunk with vodka instruct on Satan’s blame for travails
and rewards for the obedience of the miserable in challenge.
If only the excruciating pain could bring me to that belief, instead
of mental breakdown insanely railing at my protector?
What test of integrity, is standing by, while beached those
that lived with righteousness, are left sun bleached carcases?