Weave the derma fabric, made from breath and sand.
Spin the flex sheared from the flesh of man.
Recycled since Earth and time began.
Remember this gift of life; granted by God's own hand.

Of the many faces begotten from Eve;
most have turned from their creator
to follow their own dream's...
it would sadly seem.
Races smothered by mass, consuming greed.
Tuned into fleshes lower needs.
Internally they reproduce, with little perception,
of evil's true conception.
For primal purpose's their deeds are done;
led by destruction's own chosen son.

Who weave's the flesh in multi genes sublime,
creating new fabric's of an unholy kind.
Cleverly blending humanity into a brittle cloth of one.
Aiming at the so called... spiritual;
fitting them for their death shroud.
Because they choose the artificial.

Where is the finer fabric spun,
the solid standard...
worn by those the genuine spirit weaver won?

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