On the new year it is written in falling stars,
on the repentment it is sealed in gas and rock, in
lifeless planets of empty sacrament, for
what are these words?

What are these words I'm speaking, this
scripture ancient and old, that I must atone for
what my peers do daily without the bat of an eyelash
because it's okay as long as nothing grows inside.

I don't believe that. I believe in old words-turned new, of
new leaves from withered trees. I believe in the words as ancient as
the heavens themselves and that finding your place in them
can't just come from a book.

The words alone are just text, just motion and repetition
of the day, of old. But what's the point of examining life
if you're not living it? You can be holy in a bubble,
but your words and deeds are smoke.

Piety and perfection, goals of unreachable mount.
live your life and try, for in the end, all you have left is
the dust of your bones, the chant of your soul, and one last
Hallelujah.