The Self Imposed God And Her Demons

The fruit I bare does naught for the starved but fill their hollow eyes with a greed so deep, so heavy my earthly bones are shattered under the weight.

And all they do is cry, not from sorrow, but out of rage that my flesh is no longer at their fingertips.

That I am no longer theirs to devour. 

What they show is neither love nor devotion, but a dry husk of a much more sinister feeling, one their wretched souls bleed without regret.

And how cruel is the man that lifts his head to the heavens, turning a blind eye on his soiled hands, knowing not what it means to atone for his sins, but with a blackened desire rotting away in his heart.