Subjected to mental scarification,
Man’s complacence weighs heavy upon the scales.
Thoughts are impaled and brought down by dead weight.
Words said, sedate
Like the fumes of men who opi-ate.
So hard to open gates
to Mystic Gardens long over-grown by thorny vines.
People drone on and put on ties to face the morning grind.
Could this be a warning sign,
of coming bad times for those who succumb, blind?
Hard to find ourselves inside the Hive’s myriad of cells.
Religion teaching us this isn’t Hell,
saying "It can’t be"…. I can’t tell.
In a swell of silent emotion
I’m surrounded by a violent commotion.
My security from all this comes from tried Devotion.
I’ve tried to motion for support,
subtly, like a player caught in a spiritual warfare.
But it seems there’re no more who care
so I’m left alone to stare
into the Mirror, which is Life.
My pupils dilate wide like tunnels to the inside
and I can see parts of my heart that have since died.
My sin cried, and even my eyes have tried but my tears are dried
Become dusty, barren, like the sands of time that slide through my cerebellum.
And all the while my inner-child plays alone
making His Way home
through the Fields of the Nephilem.