I, too, have known the metallic clang of silver soup spoon on steel-wrapped bars.
Self-pity is a city; lullabies, its slums. I traded love for nihilism, and lest ye be judged, consistently succumbed to the weakness in my blood, a defiance of Sabbaths, embrace of cynicism and language shared by tragic figures. I tolerated psalms and parables as justification for terrible deeds as you took your scissor hymns to […] […]
As martyred saints