Inpius

It departs of this world in frigid insistence

To overcome the sacred choice

For our hour of unpunished sin

Has struck.  Hear you not the bells?

O'er black lament, angelic voice

That shall sing in this house

Nevermore.  Pink hands tenderly cupped

Around His ear, a child whispers

With all due respect, Sir, I search not for you

But rather for the serpentine path of my own Fate

Fraught with fear, He righteously descends

To see His beloved earth again

Placing roses upon the graves of those who doubt

And reassuring the men who believe

With wine made of their thickened blood

And Death at his side, the cold accountant, Destiny, his judge

Under whom we are all convicts

Awaiting execution, the only deliverance

From the agony of simply existing  

Condemning us to seek windows where there are only mirrors

Why then is it a crime to barter the soul, the asking price

For survival?

Surely God has no part in this affair; rather, it is a pathetic sagacity

Intrinsic and primordial

That drives us along our merry ways