Fever, the first god of man, the cycle repeats itself
in lust of the Christ, the hobbled and the torn
feeble, the reigns of power, unused and incorrect
saints of the final word, barren and alone
the confidence is blinding
willing to suffer behind
the veil
of the father
first born, of blood and wine, the creator’s fantasy
perverted and confused, twisted in denial
sickened now, by my own disguise
hounds of the one below, corrupted and impure
the confidence is blinding
willing to suffer behind
the veil
of the father
my way is such, confounded by the fruit, just as those before me. what’s so special about the secure, the Devine is a lonely nothing with all but fear in its eyes. Considerable thought has been put into futile attempts to repulse the feelings meant of my kind. Damaged beyond repair, we limp through this expanse.
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