You'd be choking on your flame, my Son without a name, made king¹ of all the wastes.
And forever will swallow us alive, we'll be abstracted from time - we can let the tides wash over.
This is the epilogue to the introduction: Lost in the sound.² Hold tight all your systematic theories that help you to sleep at night, but remember that there could be no sufficient certitudes in hell.
Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.³ Mother, receive me⁴ because I'm coming home to you.
Does this cup⁵ run dry?
Look at what we've done again.
We wage war in the name of love - using gold to fill the holes in your hands.
Caught in the paradox - juxtaposed between bifurcated black and white...
and my propensity to fail you.
Caught in the cyclical narrative of violence that invokes your name to justify genocide.
They'll take everything.
We traded water for salt - something whole for something equally as broken as us.
Now dying of thirst we'll write this out in blood and shut you in a stone cold time where the air rots out - leaving us alone.
We chose to be alone.
I was given to cup to quench parched
tongues, but I became drunk and lust lynched my lungs.
Father, forgive them.
For they know not what they do.
Mother, receive me, because I'm coming home to you.
Does this cup run dry?
For they know not what they do.
[¹ INRI
² Underoath, 2006
³ Luke 23: 34
⁴ Luke 23: 46
⁵ Luke 22: 42]
