It would seem this world has talons,

With which it decides to rip open

My heart, leaving only searing pain, pain

Which dashes my hope, my dreams, my

Heart, it tears; how am I to

Stay whole, stay alive in this bitter

Winter cold that is this world's own?

If my cries are in vain as they

Appear, if my needs are left unmet

As they are, if my soul is

Lost, or in the hands of the

Devil, as I would hope, then all

Is lost; but as though it were

Life I am living, and not death…

You may call it a testament to

My faith in change, that is why

I seem to be still here, now

Doubt seems not with me except when

With the Christians' god. Is that not

Irony fitting of the gods? I suppose

'Tis so, as that is the way

One may say to me, may God

Have mercy upon you, and I shall

Reply, no, I have seen this mercy

That you speak so highly of, but

You see, I do not want that

Supposed gift from your supposed god, it

Seems as though said mercy is death

Whom then should aide me in this?

Whom then should give me solace from

This plague that seems to be life?

Death, death seems to be the only

Constant, the only keeper of eternity, not

A god, but a guardian of lost

Souls, of which mine is a part

My soul, that soul that has beaten

All that has assailed her, she that

Is content in a life of her making

Not one given to her, not one

Made for her, not one with all

Decisions previously made for her, one of

Her own, one only handed to her

This heart in my chest, it's been

Broken, once or twice, but it's mine

All mine, stitches, infections, iniquities and all

The imperfections were put there by my

Hand; the breakings, the mendings, the defeats,

The triumphs, the losses, the gains: mine

Only mine, only I may have claim