Consequence Of Aftermath Poem by Saint Cynosure

On nights that are not full of moon,
I take my membrace walks.
Pass the broken buildings ruin,
where the ghost of all dead talk.
Over hills and buried flesh,
and littered mounds of bones.
To the deepest part of my backyard,
on the south side of my home.
Where I lay all the girls to rest,
who have pushed my love aside.
I am by far the best of men,
but I still do have my pride.
I can take a simple no,
but not a yukkish grin.
And I repay in evil ways,
every now and then.
I look upon the little hills,
Ive made with my bare hands.
And remember whom it is I placed
in certain spots of land.
Remember how I did the things,
of which Ive no remorse.
How so its true the words you speak,
can often set your course.
So just a little word of wise,
to all who want to hear.
When speaking to someone reject,
be nice so you wont fear.
The consequence of aftermath,
if I'm the man who hears.