I was in my pastlife.
Was I the pastor, gospel spreading.
Capablity thinks of you naive for me.
Thinking of the capablity I'm subjected to.
Overwhelming it is.
Cogiate most do to such a fabrication. But abscond you will at the thought.
Thy task, ardous it remains.
I'm the entity that lies unseen.
Thoughts minding within is one contradiction entirely.
Unimaginable things.
But none will believe.
None.
Alas, in the subconcious of the conformity and communistic beliefs lies the refuge.
In me thy refugee lies.
It is in my pastlife.
Is it all but the preaching of thy pastors words?
Oft the gospel is neglected of spread.
A disguise to shadow all.
Shadowing love, hate, sin.
Sin it does.
And to abide to criteria so obnouxious, so wanting, so unforgivable.
To comprend and extrapolate a neverending chasm of fate, 
Of faith, 
Of fame,
Of shame,
Of remaining insane,
Of the tamed,
Of the maimed,
Of the blame.
Ultimate blame.
Blue pawn in red shade I am.
I am my pastlife.
Am I thy pastor, gospel to spread?