Sociopath, compulsive liar, delusionistnCertified schizophrenic, abused and plasmatic, since conception is what the doctors report revealed about MortnHe manipulated them with liesnNow he’s free, back in societynCured with pills and psychotherapynBut the scars of mother’s words remainnVictim of life at a futile agenAs he drives down the streetnHe can see the ghosts here to remind himnAnd their faces in the treesnHe can hear them call his name in the windy breezenThe souls that were taken awaynThinking his medication is not workingnHe can see the walking deadnSmelling their scent, viewing their gutless cavitiesnStrangulation marks around their necknThey speak to him and retreatnLust of their memories, as they perishednFills his deceitful mind, the urge for new fantasiesnHe can’t contain, although he triesnEveryday the ghosts returnnAnd ask why you did this to menI’ll never know you, I’ll haunt you till I dienYou took us from our loved onesnYou violated my eternal shellnMutilated forever, I will haunt younMort replies. Mother created thisnBlame it all on her, I have been immortalizednMy illness has given the power of divinationnI saved you from your own hellnMy volition to kill has perverse menI loved you all, even though you did not know me, but now you are herenAnd I remember the looknIn your eyes as you diednMy volition fur lustnShall never set me freenUntil I die, you are a prisoner to menIn the next dimension I will be kingnThrough my divination and volitionnI will succeed