No Proof Of Evidence

No proof.
Nor truth of evidence produced.
Will ever come to one discovered guilty.
Close to convince enough,
That an innocence to declare it said...
Does not automatically happen.
Even with a magic wand,
Vanishes and miraculously disappears,
Inside of the head of one prepared...
To fight.
With all of their mentally disturbing might.

Against,
Their own comments made.
Videos taken.
Or them captured at the scene,
Screaming obscenities to demean...
Those of law and justice.
Performing their duty.
To present their findings publicly.

Showing clearly the proof and its evidence.
Not to create it to make up as if fictioned.
But as it is to view and be seen.

And yet,
Disbelievers...
Deceived, betrayed to fraud.
And victimized to have their quality of lives,
Treasonized by lies to tell and told to sell...
Their very souls.
In exchange for their support.
And unwavering loyalty to keep.

The one known playing Peter the Piper.
Has them all cheering to destroy themselves.
With a kept consciousness done to do it.
As if Peter Piper played his flute.
To love so much to have them ignore,
More of their own destruction.

Not only to applaud as they followed.
But await for the command,
To jump into a pit flaming and started...
By the heat of B.S. as if drugged and addicted.
Regardless of the truth presented.
And the reality of the smoke.
Choking them to death!

'Will you stop your jealous exaggerations.
Embellished purposely to agitate.
With a doing to irritate those of faith.'

Oh how I wish,
Peter sang and played the piano.

'What?'