The petrol in me often knows not what it wants.
At most it wants a withdrawal into the isolated unknown.
It is hard to understand that it haunts,
Even more when it snowballs into something more grown.
To be free of nightmares,
To be free of stones,
Stones freezing by bones,
Incessantly, until even waking is one of the chores.
The sins I have done cannot be forgiven.
What is forgiveness anyway, in the eyes of a nonbeliever.
What is a pardon worth when in its name nothing can be given.
What I wonder, then, can be used as reliever.
Is it a pardon I seek,
Or is it self forgiveness.
One cannot trust a soul in the world,
Not when trust has been rendered void,
He who hears, heal me from bitterness,
May heaven, at last, give me a peek.
Impulses, those just like rats,
Numerous, racing, backstabbing lads,
They own the steering wheel,
Even though I never agreed to such deal,
And they swerve,
And they crash,
They take and they clash,
They burn then they hurt,
And I let them,
Oh, do I let them,
Burn the soil in God's land.
Perhaps the rats were never rats,
Perhaps it was my hand on the wheel,
Perpaps it was my thirst pathing the way,
All this time, perhaps, it was all me.
With white for eyes,
With red for thought,
With petrol for tears,
With blood for thirst.
I can no longer control the wrath of rats.
For they have their fun,
But, perhaps, as well do I.
