• A man who once had it all fell from prestige,



    into the very ghettos he left his followers in,



    not a refugee looked with remorse or pity,



    he is left for none to see,



    his dying breath contains nothing but spite for none to hear,



    no light from whence the soul originally crafted from could save the damned,



    as he die in the cold, an eterinity of heat awaits,



    yet never enough to warm the glacial heart within,



    Sorrow's lance has no justification for arrogance,



    nothing but agony and anguish remain for the beligerant.