Just burned.
Bow down.
This ugly scar will mend itself again,
but when will its figure die?
Pierced through the heart.
I watch the red elixir spill from the center of its life.
I depict eighteen visions for its demise.
Not even water can bring back two thousand years of life i`ve watched die.
Rise to your glory on the third day.
You are not my christ.
Rise. 
Utopia.
Damned to hell.
I rest this figure of ideal perfection.
There will be no funeral for this profane existence.
Always on the left hand path.