This bleak heart.

This bleak heart is choking on its own sympathy. I have seen where hope leads and its deceit makes me sick. The promise of a better world under the foot of a new tyrant, completely oblivious. I tread this sea of faces, stomping out the brightest of smiles, an echo, a reflection of what this world has made me believe.

Ahead is the tower of Babylon, burning in self proclaimed glory. Festering with sickness. The stench of lies here is staggering. The tower and its people can't see their own decay, have no sense of perception of suffering. My greatest wish, make them suffer. Tear down this rotten spire and leave their festering carcasses writhing in the wake of their devastation, drowning in the dust that pours forth from inhuman veins.

If this bleak heart could project itself upon the world, hope would be exposed for the fraud I've come to know it to be. Cities would burn, blazing spires from which mothers cast down their own children, the picture they paint on the concrete more accurate a depiction of hope's folly than I could ever conjure.

This world is already burning and we are already dead. It is just a question of when the fires turn themselves in on us when the natural landscape can no longer sustain them. If this bleak heart could show itself, you all would flee into the flames in the horror I'd show you.

It's coming, but this hopeless heart will have nothing to do with it.