Rapture and Riddle

A sleeping beast Or winged messenger from God Lays its quicksand of the truth And I am spat like a petal from some nameless bloody heart A constant question of the proof I scratch in complacent deals With my fellow’s skin and drone predators While living in the fields A cauldron drips These poppies fix A soldiers boot Addiction is The needle spent is where I live But faith can be Such a fickle masturbation of sentiment Did I nail myself onto the wood In scarlet scars through shrinking palms Sacrifice my history So they could write a misshapen allegory So they could rest their scraps In painted psalms of papier-mâché None of it was me I was not born to be An asset Of their delinquency Did I lay myself out in love To hang there torn upon the cross A plush riddle in comforts upholstery The benediction of their ease The filthy placebo of their greed In the ragged bones I fall to earth In the moist illusion of the dust With this wretched taste of famine in my throat Am I the benediction of their greed The filthy placebo of their disease A nameless child who scavenges For every single breath As I lay here in the dirt And in the gluttony of the church And so for pities sake Just one more obloquy of prayer In the chronicle of remembrance Or sleeping angel A winged beast sent from the savage eye of God Lays in the quicksand of the truth Spat from a stinking petal Of some cringing bloody heart And I will gather here a while The meagre scraps of dust and earth A constant question of the proof