When I'd dried by cold dark hands of their guilt,
they seemed to retain and retrieve what I had built,
the harder I tried to satisfy the Gods of hidden justice,
the more i seemed to sink below their depths, to hit and miss,
I cried deep into the sockets of my thoughts where I knew only sorrow,
I tried to find a hand to help or a shoulder to rest on but these things I couldn't borrow,
So I sat in the hour of my shame, looking up to the clouds of condemnation and damnation,
I could hear his angry breath, could sense his bitter agony, and I saw his rife indignation.
Where could my feelings be hidden? In what place could the workings of my mind be concealed?
These questions teased and tore at my soul, they ripped and spat at my pride until I would yield,
Facing the rain and having to explain myself to the wind was the immediate punishment for my sin,
Mere beggars and paupers above me now, even animals and wild beasts of the west would over me win.
The blood stench lingered and danced around my conscience with ironic bliss and pleasure,
I knew somewhere, somehow, someone was watching with that contentment of equal measure,
The rotting vessel of life slowly crawled pathetically towards the dangerous inner circles of my head,
to remind me of what I'd left behind and what I would leave behind was it's purpose and to find me dead...