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The doomed man.

By: JL reaper

Page 1, A man faces his final hour.

The condemned man

What is a man if not condemned to die. What is he if not certain of his own mortality; of his own duty to this cruel place we call our lives, our home, and if this man was not to act accordingly to his duty, would he not be condemned, condemned to die? So this is the case for myself. I am awaiting that hour, that final hour when God calls out to me, and from that moment on all will be forever dead. Every living soul shall disappear from vision and from heart.

What is a man, but doomed to suffer, suffer for the crimes of his actions, as well as the actions of others that came before him. Drums, Drums play in the darkness. They play to the song of suffering, of mans corruption, of my corruption. I hear the voices of those who came before me, who thought the same as I thought. I hear them whisper, I hear them breathe against my skin, for I shall be with them soon, the forgotten ones, the condemned ones.

I am lonely, so lonely that even the sweet release of life will not end the suffering that endured me. weeping is not the subject of the day, for all who watch wishes for the drums to play, wishes for I to be with one maker. It is too late for repent, it is too late for all who’s fate is sealed, for all of those men who walk with me, who fear the swing of the sword and all the power it holds.

Angels sing not, heavens cry not, not for us, not for the condemned men. We are without love, with out admiration. What is life but a cold, a cold and desolate road to uncertainty? I walk on the edge of abyss, the edge of what is the end; my bones ach with the wait of death.

What is a man if not condemned to bleed, bleed for all humanity, Bleed for the ones who he has done great wrong. That is the way of life, the way of the soul, all his fair and just within the kingdom that is the death of me. I shall receive no pity, for my victim received none. I shall receive no remorse, for my victim received none. Love is blind; love has never been there for us, the unfeeling, the wicked and forgotten, oh why pray for us?

It is cold, so very cold, it is time to rest, and it is time to go. They shall call me evil, and they shall call me mad, but I am only a man, a man that never was liked, or loved like the rest. So empty was I. so lost was I, and in this darkness I cry, for what is a man if not condemned to die.





















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