Running from myself…for how long, so very long,
Have I run from the truth incrusted inside my eyes?
Deep down, where there is no space for merciful lies,
The mirrors of my essence aching shadows prolong,
Twisting in the labyrinth of my evil, my unknown,
My unborn, desperate sins, for my tears to atone.
I stand by the bus stop, the hatred to atone
Searching for saints, for hallowed virgins of long
Veils and soft words, their reality ultimately unknown,
Unproved, unseen but for the faith of hopeless eyes,
Burning by the fire of remorse, their hurt prolong
By the maze of self-delusions and useful lies.
The dark, flawed side of the world within me lies.
It is my home; the inspiration behind the sacrifice to atone
My broken being, the crime of my existence. To prolong
Not this offence and erase my reflection from the sun’s eyes,
I have tried hard to achieve. My obliteration, I permanently long.
I want to be an abomination by angels and mankind unknown.
And yet, the voice of hate gives my spirit an unknown
Blaze of intrinsic determination, a primeval instinct which lies
Beyond the purified, antiseptic virtue that clouds the eyes
Of those who, with suffering concern, look at me, ready to atone
With united palms and bloodied knees the wicked, winded, long
Road of my life, which deep down I know I wish to prolong.
My arms are ploughed by grief. Scars from my wrist prolong
All the way to the grooves of my heart, trying to pay for unknown
Felonies, hidden beneath the imperfection of what I am, which long
Ago brought to the ground the Divine. Lies. Petty, ugly, cruel lies,
My hatred groans. I owe you nothing. There’s nothing to atone.
And with my fear gone, I set myself free from the spears of your eyes.
I now wash with mercy the crystal off my eyes.
I let my hatred and you go, for I shall not prolong
The smouldering shame, nor let rage and pain to atone
The dread of those lost years, that raving agony unknown
By the awakening angel, which in my soul lies:
The child awaiting for my love for so long. For so very long.
No longer running from myself, from that inner hell that for long
Painted sky-high falls of blood in the pupils of my eyes,
My angel and I board the bus. The road of freedom before us lies.