So drop the pursuit of an unconceivable heaven. Why pray for a blind perception? There is no defined path of reality, or one so overtly judged as the creation of an afterlife. Are we so bold as to imply ownership of one’s own destiny?
More importantly, why be willing to settle?
Controlling from miles away. I thought I killed you off, my dear sweet one, for I remember the knife. Cutting through meat and bone. There was blood on my hands, throbbing out my side. You were the bad part, the cancer eating at my pathetic pudgy body and I was your saviour.
Lift me up from your illusion Lord, for this reciprocating hatred must be the bruise on your holiest of fruits.
Your god is on the cross, wasting away. My god is in my back pocket.
