These acts He won’t condone, or so you say

--

I am what I was born to be,

For He knows what will become of me.

--

Unshadowed, I had a vision of the world

Wrapped in wombs that clouded out the seas

And via shameless cries of who fucked whom

I saw her life as what I once believed.

--

She is what she ought to be,

Saving memories of what He sees.

--

Dark things crowded scenes of dreadful rage

(And this act He won’t condone is pleasure caged)

The highest sin it seems is mortal bliss

Measures tragic as a wretched Judas kiss.

--

Though is it right to comparatively state

The betrayal with these common things you hate?

--

But tragedies! Can you suppress your bungling speech?

So I can wedge a drop of an undisputable leak

Of history’s cyclical Bermuda triangle, so forgotten,

So temporary… Will you pause and let me speak?

--

Like a flightless bird insisting with his arms

You tumble from the edge and feign His charm.

But you thrust your radical books at me

Beneath this unencumbered sky—

--

His clouds beg for a name, but in your haste

To justify hypocrisy, you overlook their desperate plea,

Helping the heathen stars to lie.

--

I watch His earthly place sway on the brink

Of disastrous ends; hypnotic, thrifty drinks.

--

You burden us with mistrust, and lust—

A borderline between love and need

It haunts me like a ghost of film,

And manipulates my greed.

--

I am what I will die to be,

A martyr for no one but me.

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