Perishing Truth Poem by Adams King

Demons on the upper land
and bibles in the casket
Dead are the ancient scriptures
While the truth remains wasted
I stood upon that same ground
Being weird and flabbergasted

The preacher on the pulpit
never preached the truth behind them
He told us about fame and fortune
and showed us the way to find them
his crooked path was straight
so we couldn't realise them

The coconuts are very hard
But there are sweet rivers inside
The apples are easy to bite
Yet the broad way the devils hide
When for gold men trade their souls
In what other God would they confide

There is a mystery meal of wormwood
An unbearable taste in truth's tongue
Men hate the bitter path of life
So they die in the comfort of doing wrong
When the master's whistles are worn
What becomes of the wandering dogs

The eyes of evil consciously watched
Lost men with no instinct of good
Like a meal served in an ugly calabash
The Creator's law taste less a rich food
They are more perished soul to be saved
Men are more of vices and less of virtue