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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.