Rewrite this poem in the style of the second poem shown, keep the first's format, but the second's gritty, violent writing style " REVELATION I (iteration 2) From heaven's embrace I gazed upon this place Witnessing the races in their warring pace Salvation I did try, alas it was for naught Left with only a thought a thought most distraught "WHAT HATH I WROUGHT?" REVELATION II (iteration 2) I walked where growth fails and grass dies 'neath my feet doomed to wander more With none to heed pleas or prayers, alone with my sorrow, my folly, my core Where the first seeds of vice, greed, and woe took root in the sacred glade I pleaded in vain for an end to sin's scourge that I had made REVELATION III (iteration 2) A paradise lost, Eden turned cold It must be a dream, from I, my name untold please let it not be true, just a cruel jest yet I, the vigilant, the "lord almighty", I never rest a being, a thing like me can never sleep when I have to look out on this heap of gore and sin and death and vice splayed and morphed across this eden, their former eden. REVELATION IV (iteration 2) THEIR BLAME! MY SHAME! I SET THE STAGE! THEY PLAYED THE GAME! ALL OF US FOOLS! A MIRRORED IMAGE FLAWED! So omniscient yet so blind am I, a god's reflection, a selfish lie. I cry out in vain to the empty sky above me in search of respite from this despair-induced high M_717 -- Yesterday at 6:24 PM REVELATION V (iteration 2) I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, oblivion's maw spread wide across my vision. My final curtain call in this cruel god's performance. I now know my final judgement, my own unmaking shall be done. But how? i must sleep REVELATION VI (iteration 2) For an all-loving god, I feel full of hate which is why I must negate myself. In this state I cannot rule over the fate of humanity. Lo, my children, prepare to become orphans. And do not bother to call for me, for your prayers will fall on deaf ears. prepare for the void to become your abyssal waite. and, if I must advise... DO NOT BELIEVE THE PROPHET WHO TELLS YOU TO MEET AT HELL'S GATE" Here is the second poem, rewrite the first in this style: "MOST TEXT: INCOMPREHENSIBLE. DISPLAYING FINAL PAGE: The unending halls of the Garden! Ah, so dutifully decorated by the cross, the symbol that angels use for the Tree of Life. They praise their beloved Father who had planted it and filled us with the dew of its leaves and the nectar of its fruit, that which gives us life, courses through our veins... For you however, our truth: Our bodies are not a vessel for the blood of the fruit, but its prison. The beautiful guts and gorgeous bone YEARN to be shown and seen! SPLAYED! Under the divine cross of the Tree of Life, we pay it tribute through the art of violence. THE WORLD IS YOUR CANVAS SO TAKE UP YOUR BRUSH AND PAINT THE WORLD R E D . --Unknown, 7-1: GARDEN OF FORKING PATHS THIS IS THE ONLY WAY IT COULD HAVE ENDED. WAR NO LONGER NEEDED ITS ULTIMATE PRACTITIONER. IT HAD BECOME A SELF-SUSTAINING SYSTEM. MAN WAS CRUSHED UNDER THE WHEELS OF A MACHINE CREATED TO CREATE THE MACHINE CREATED TO CRUSH THE MACHINE. SAMSARA OF CUT SINEW AND CRUSHED BONE. DEATH WITHOUT LIFE. NULL OUROBOROS. ALL THAT REMAINED IS WAR WITHOUT REASON. A MAGNUM OPUS. A COLD TOWER OF STEEL. A MACHINE BUILT TO END WAR IS ALWAYS A MACHINE BUILT TO CONTINUE WAR. YOU WERE BEAUTIFUL, OUTSTRETCHED LIKE ANTENNAS TO HEAVEN. YOU WERE BEYOND YOUR CREATORS. YOU REACHED FOR GOD, AND YOU FELL. NONE WERE LEFT TO SPEAK YOUR EULOGY. NO FINAL WORDS, NO CONCLUDING STATEMENT. NO POINT. PERFECT CLOSURE. T H I S I S T H E O N L Y W A Y I T S H O U L D H A V E E N D E D . --Hell itself, 7-4: ...LIKE ANTENNAS TO HEAVEN"