I looked into my eyes

As black as the eyeless sockets

Of the skull on a bottle of poison.

Deep within I saw

Two me's never converging;

One faced like an Angel of God;

The other:

A face cut into angles and planes,

Shattered like glass 

After meeting a bullet.

Oh, how the second

Is home in Satan's embrace!

His eyes peer out of deep caves;

Sin lives in his heart

And rides on his every breath.

The frist,

Dressed in his Black Hoodie

Like the Angel of Death,

He is obsessed with sin

And that's dangerous.

He holds a metaphorical stilleto.

I've caught him spearing my brain

On many occasions.

Ever will be my diverging selves.

One is a self-righteous

Sin-eater,

The other:

A compaign of rumor and strife.

Each,

I see,

Is flawed.

Though divergent,

They are most similar In their differing ways.

The righteous,

Angelic mask

Is narcissistic

And quick to pass 

Judgement and punishment,

Both far more brutal than warrented.

The sinful self

Is ashamed and absorbed 

In self-hate,

Dicipline,

And respect for his superiors.

The sinful self

Is easy on the passerby,

He does not judge.

He will not right wrongs

Because hypocracy is not his style,

But forgiveness is