writing Hope of a lost sin

[Pan the Fabulous Ferret 2,642]

When emotions are on the verge of something beyond understanding,

just who do you turn to.

 

Certainly not the beggar in the streets,

who's tattered garments cling to the lifeless shell.

Shell? Oh, but of course, forgive me.

 

I forget that you are of an impudent race, one that seeks to annul all that lays before you,

all that is different from you.

So still I am talking to you, about the beggar, the shell of a man.

A man who has more life than you ever shall.

 

But still I see you are ignorant.

Is that a blessing or a curse?

So then, where do your attatchments lie?

Certainly not with the working man,

who's spirit is crushed by those above him.

Spirit? I had forgotten, more or less, what you lack.

 

I remember now, of all your past sins.

Forget them, not.

Man will continue to judge man.

Apon them all a plague of feuds.

 

So, where does your hope lie?

Certainly not in me,

one who waits and bides his time,

lurking about and writing away.

 

Surely I say, that with me your hopes cannot stay.