When do ghosts die, is there life after life? When the blind seeds go fourths we reaped what we sown. The blood spilled for madness or holiness or which is the lesser of two evils? To convince through torturous repent threats, to keep on living. Or the madness from the love of one true God that seems to be driven into the core of hour system that binds us to hands of time.
A mother dies to save a family of sinners, as a soldier dies at the mercy of wars, they shed blood we shed tears like stars evaporating into blankets of night. Yet our spirits seem to shine no matter how inflicted the median. A man hung from the Oak tree. He invoked the spirit of wisdoms he travelled far from the other side. Between worlds, a thin line wrapped in consciousness.
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