Clean Hands

In silent places
In quiet living tombs
In perfectly still reflection
There is morbidity in grace

By the grace of gods these words
Fall to earth like the fruit of imperfection
By the grace of gods this bird
Lacks the mirth to sing the song of its infection
By the grace of gods
In the silence of death
And the silence of death

Cold, serene sterility
Virulent, frozen futility
By the grace of gods