Leave me to rot, the rot,
the place I was born
not of my choice, my choice -
the biggest illusion of God.
World pit. So heavy against
my soul. So pounding, pressing
designed all by her.
She who weaves my woes.
Holy mother makes me from
rotten sin, and claims I must
be cured. Somehow. How do I
clean the skin off my bones?
It is heresy, to say I was designed
to sin. Then say she loves me.
When she has built this cruel fate,
carved a cage for my sorrows.
If I'm truly made to sin,
Holy Mother's love has never been.
