The Crease and the Fold

You were born from the ashes

Of our world's great dependence

Upon which you've grown strong.

But you are faceless to us all,

A body formed by the faithful.

Your life is but a balancing act

As time slithers through eras.

Always needed by the feeble minded.

A warm home, always vacant,

A scab upon the scraps of many.

You ask too much of us lowly dwellers.

Our bloody knees are but pin pricks

Compared to the delicate devotion

That you would have us consumed by.

Our prayers are but whispers in the night.

They say you were there at the beginning;

That the big bang has nothing on you.

And we created a son for you.

A divine soul to walk among the peasants;

A savior for the needy and illiterate.

Your holy book of dictums and diatribes

Is the chain that weighs your servants down

So as that we become perpetual beggars;

Insects beneath the father's shadow.

But with every page there are a thousand lies.

Your world is hid behind parochial beliefs.

Black and white is the colors that fill your palette.

There is no prism of humanity within you.

Your parameters with which you see are finite,

Straight lines in a sea of angles.

You are the alpha male, eternities Id.

Women are but servants of servants;

Sin is the slavery binding beauty everywhere.

Prostitutes, deceivers, usurpers;

You are the first abuser of the softer skin.

I have bled out your teachings,

Painted it with these corrupted hands

To become the Mona Lisa of martyrdom.

I was born and grown within you,

From the same mother that blesses you.

And yet as I castrate your creation

I am weak and growing weaker,

For as I purge my blasphemies onto you

I know that when my despair cages me

My knees shall bend like all the others.

I will cry and weep for heavenly mercy.

My penance will be brief yet bold

And the ideals that man made for you

Will be my sorrowful salvation.

And when I hit bottom I'll be searching for you.

And if you are true to your word

Will you live up to the hype?

Am I forgivable or a tyrant?

A bit of poison within your flock.

Can a crease become one of the fold?  

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