desecrate
In stone-gray suit jacket and rough-taylored jeans walks little one down the street. Only today, she's wondering what went wrong to make her feel so dead - so listless - so callous inside. But she needn't wonder too long. Because there it is - the shadow of all the dead men before her. And she knows - not they, but she wronged herself.
Second chance. Second choice. Second decision that might have been more right.
A flick through the pages of the past tell us little one's inadequate. A bit of smoke from the candle-light reminds us she's still burning. A pile of the ashes collected from her miserable little tales tell us little one isn't doing so well.
Smoke collecting first on the ground, then rising through the clean air; rising to meet the ceiling where the smoke detectors are. But she's been lying under that bad air for far too long. Without warning. Without breath.
Been so long under that oppression, wasting away.
Constant hymns singing from the jukebox in the diner we don't frequent anymore. A bad marionette, strings shredded so we can't take control. A wire framework of all the logical explanations you had in mind. But none of them twined enough to hold much weight after all.
Strength shows in design. And we're being designed by our sins - by our sacrifical wrongs, by our thinning-out blood. We're spilling our own blessings on our own little stacked-up alters, little concern to what says the skies above. We're painting watercolor images of our deeds and making carbon-copied documents of our lives. And we're still dancing on the mountain; the mountain where the world watched as they killed him.
Death bringers - all of us. Dragging death captive behind our backs, pointing fingers at our executioners and poking sharpened sticks at life, prodding and jeering until it can't stand erect.
Then we crusify it. We chistianize it. And we desecrate it.
-RK
Second chance. Second choice. Second decision that might have been more right.
A flick through the pages of the past tell us little one's inadequate. A bit of smoke from the candle-light reminds us she's still burning. A pile of the ashes collected from her miserable little tales tell us little one isn't doing so well.
Smoke collecting first on the ground, then rising through the clean air; rising to meet the ceiling where the smoke detectors are. But she's been lying under that bad air for far too long. Without warning. Without breath.
Been so long under that oppression, wasting away.
Constant hymns singing from the jukebox in the diner we don't frequent anymore. A bad marionette, strings shredded so we can't take control. A wire framework of all the logical explanations you had in mind. But none of them twined enough to hold much weight after all.
Strength shows in design. And we're being designed by our sins - by our sacrifical wrongs, by our thinning-out blood. We're spilling our own blessings on our own little stacked-up alters, little concern to what says the skies above. We're painting watercolor images of our deeds and making carbon-copied documents of our lives. And we're still dancing on the mountain; the mountain where the world watched as they killed him.
Death bringers - all of us. Dragging death captive behind our backs, pointing fingers at our executioners and poking sharpened sticks at life, prodding and jeering until it can't stand erect.
Then we crusify it. We chistianize it. And we desecrate it.
-RK
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