Poetry

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A purpose was there, when each was sent,
for without reason, is there no event.
But few become, what they were to be,
so never complete their destiny.
And the ones whos part, has been fulfilled,
are mocked, and scorned, and even killed.
Corrupted has become, the master design,
for even hearts and minds, nolonger align.
So now the world is full, of many a void,
indeed the perfect plan, have we destroyed.
And without remorse, do we carry on,
resting not, till all hope is gone.
And though the earth, could be repaired,
another place, has been prepared.
Those that completed their task, shall he recall,
but what does remain, shall he scrap it all.

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