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Synthetic Son

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Solitary sin is nothing but a burden as scholarly vindication is rain.


Do we scorn each other out of fear? Or do we mourn for ourselves? Is this the evil of jealousness? Or the steel of zealousness?


A god chooses our fates. I elect to remove these nooses. Angels may try to claw at my feet, but I do not hear their calls. I will send the heavens my middle finger, to hell my head ringer. Graces of god and curses of the devil, I will erase and reverse it all.


This is a dream of fear. I cannot taste the cream of the angels comfort. Am I not a being of the heart, from dead to start? It has become clear, as the meaning of art. I will choose a means, a clean.


Grip the cold, run free, and reach gold


Strike the warmth, begin to see, live free


What sun do you see? An eclipse of heart, where the cold is my start? Or a tender hope, hands reaching up towards the rope?


Circles ran, breaths taken. Tears shed, not a thought mistaken. Is this the world we inherit? A hive of hate? A swarm of swords? Could the answer be under the moors? What fate is second thus? Wherein no one loves us.


Am I to die as Peter? Or to stalk the earth as Judas the deceiver? Narrow tunnels do skew light and now all I feel is fright.


Which burdens the shepard less? A dead cattle, or one in distress? This toss chooses my being, to suffer or to sigh. My body yearns to release, but my soul will not cease. “Save me, dear love!”- will never bring peace.




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