From what right does the righteous claim fame to thrones never owned by a man, a man's clan, stands as but a fictional bull in stampede of a race, where the pace is never set but always changing. For it is the sign of the time, where a fast world is slow in thought, where our self love is pursued but our minds rots. The bitter sweet symphony is played by a fool's procession, and it's no confession, but an obsession into transgressions. The lessons are never taught but the result is still unchanging, maniacal and stubborn its ever hanging like the gallows beckon poor souls to snapped judgments when innocent murdered men speak with blaspheme tongues cursing all until the last breath of his lung, devoured forthright chambered into hell as the scale for each demon is formed from the sins of man, yet we stand gracious and turn blind eyes to the demise of right and wrong, where we long for our success, but forget those who class less. The test of a man is not in his wantings, it's not in his haves, or with his omnipotent flaunting. The test of a man is his sacrifice, what is the full price of a life. Not have you given, but what have you not cared to receive, the perceived credit, is the credit, let your accreditation be the tribulations. Fight for right and long for peace, right the wrongs from a thief, then after thought think less of deeds for if you don't your ego feeds, the greed will grow and swallow hole, the point of your sacrificial goal. Think only it is your place, to take the space and forgo the grace. Just do right with no recognition, set aside your own ambition. Understand a life is unknown and then in death you'll claim your true throne.
