What is this clinging life of mine
But, a withering fruit grasping its vine
What was this grand purpose of which I was told
One that is rooted in the origin stories of old
Did my forefathers have no forethought?
My foremothers had no freedom of thought
What does it mean when the sun goes down?
The moon holds me sway. It is my crown.
Riding the beast in its scarlet facade
My condemnation an act of God
Why would I ever apologize to anyone who holds space for my destruction?
What is so wicked and deplorable as a love whose murder is their introduction?
You call me crafty and I call You vain
What type of glory warrants this kind of pain?
Where is the justice for Judas? And for the vessels of dishonor?
Specifically brought forth into life for the destruction of their souls and bodies.
If confusion isn’t Your authorship
And perfection is Your penmanship
Then why do those who read and sing of your love kill, steal and destroy?
Your people? They are pursuing each other with hatred now.
Just as Your Son said.
When life and grace regress into law there is only ever death and disgrace left to embrace
What is this clinging life of mine?
It is but a petulant pawn for the Divine
What was this grand purpose of which I was told?
I need it to warm my dark as I now feel cold and old
No gift of glittering gold
Nor calls to rise and be bold
Can raise me from this shroud
That you seem to have happily allowed.
The end.
The Catalyst 
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