Wash it off
Just wash it off
This sin I may have committed
Return it to its basest form
Where it belongs not to this world I call mine.
When the clock is bound to oppose the suffering of Christ
The snake visits
And it uses its only power; to seduce
It delivers the apple:
Once bitten, the forgiving no longer forgives,
Unless penance is paid.
But I refuse to pay
For I am proud
Of this manufactured self I call my own
Proud of a path I believe I had chosen
Proud of scars I thought had been forcefully inflicted
Proud of… oh too many.
And that has been my penance,
To forever remain, proud.
An eternal conflict reaches my bones
One I had read of, seen with the eyes
In those I believed doomed for their wrongs.
A conflict that shall never bear resolution
One that has lead many to fateful fatal truth.
But I turn my face,
Refuse to combat in this swirl,
This pendulum of choice
That they believed shall alter
Unwaveringly towards right.
It turns its turn
Terminates tired tendencies
Towards an ultimate wrong
One I recognize but cannot reconcile with.
Bring it forth to an alter where a line no longer exists
Bring it forth,
To a world I call nothing,
But my own.