My Lord...
I, the ill-fated, the scythe-bearing wind,
ask for forgiveness instead of death.
You do know that what I say is diurnal, don’t you?
Sibyl Herophile died prophesying their end
not mine.
I am hovering within your hands,
breathing from your own lungs.
I beg of you, forget the red prison house.
I fear, My Lord. Beckon me.
I no longer chant your hymns.
I have forgotten my childhood prayers.
Ramming in secular injustice
I seek my own sunrise.
In the affected I seek the authentic,
I cry to you, My Lord.
But then again, if you by judgment
find me dishonorable,
I beg of you, in secret bury me.
Kill me
by giving me the most unfavorable criticism.
Lay me to rest
in a huge mound of sun dust.
In you I trust,
My Lord.
I rot alone in my prison house
my shakes and splits are now voluntary
the voices soothe me and rock me
I alone am privy to my lock box of sins
the drugs and questions posed are pointless
my mental habitants signed a life long lease
and they have this message for me to give
your wife shall look good on our mantle
and her screams will be like silk to our ears
and will strike a chorus in our heart
these subsequent day dreams soothe us
and the madness frolicks in us nightly
now doc be a good servant and bring our meds
oh yeah and doc our knife is dull
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