Of all the things that end of times portend,
I think this bears the hardest on my mind:
The slain know not the reason for their end
And neither does the slayer reason find.
I've heard some lay the blame on food we eat,
While others fault our television time,
Or games of hate we endlessly repeat
Committing every pixel into crime.
Though grave a thing it is to take a life,
Be it an act tyrannical or just,
Where motive dulls the sheen of bloody knife
Or burns the lead that cools the flames of lust,
It's graver when the killer and the killed
Are heedless of the killing that was willed.
"By Him in whose control is my life, this world will not end until that time does not come to pass in which the murderer will not even bother as to why he murdered and neither will the victim know as to why he is being murdered."
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