I can see through the cracks in the clock,
While I sit atop a rock,
My chest won't stop bleeding,
I wish they would stop feeding.
God is everywhere, but that don't make him real,
Do with this what you will.
Do you see the narrow gate when you bludgeon your own soul?
I became an insomniac in a world full of the unconscious.
God is in everything, but that don't make him real,
They trade their minds for a feel.
The people who crashed and burned were so tragic,
Like magic,
One by one their fever turned to patience,
I swear they were once nascent.
God is in everyone but they don't make him real,
I've built a house made out of steel.
YOU ARE READING
This Lost Heathen
PoetryA poem in the form of a concept album based around an atheist named Christian In a devoutly religious town.
