New Breed Poem by Atticus Mortimer

Perfect,
rhyme,
keeping
time,
with all the convoluted,
disgusting schemes
That these “peoples”
seem to always have churning
In their nasty little brains,
Like,
WHo should we kill today
Or
who should we rob
and they smile,
their ideas procreating with reality
but,
there may be,
A death to evil,
a summit,
a paramount,
a peak,
of so much more than what these people are
capable of,
This new breed,
this new species of human,
these real,
people,
They storm the castle of lies and deceit,
and bring of out the holy ark,
of morals and good will,
but that day seems it will never come,
and we sit here
in our own cesspool,
in our own hell,
and i don't know about you,
but im going to shoot,
to be that different breed