There are unwanted impurities
injected into the vessels of our soul.
No—
these are not sin,
these are faith impure.
Shallow grave,
to hollow prayers—
no curse for the wicked.
For the ones to inherit this world
are long dead;
furthermore,
they have died far longer
than they have lived.
Cogs repeating,
tocks repeating.
The numbers crunch,
we all see lies.
The truth kept hidden,
behind lazy clouds.
Only the noose can set us free—
only the violin,
made of razor and wrist,
can get us out of here.
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