The Nature of It

There’s a lash implanted in deep Bound to the nature that drives me It’s not the scourge itself that stings the most, it’s the knowledge of why the flicks fall Knowing the satiety of extinct flesh Knowing the saccharinity of bygone honor: The honor of being the only exception And knowing the omnipresent void they leave behind Now I only know hunger There’s martyrdom in surrendering to the abject draw of the scourge There’s Christ-like pain in adoration beyond station and beyond forethought I’ve been marred, somehow without death and without cure Left to live a life afflicted by the idea there’s more I’ll never be I know the loss more familiarly than the lash So, when the taste of loss still lingers on my lips, you have to understand the nature of it