What’s righteous about this mess,
This wasted bag of flesh and bone,
This skilled in sinning monster,
This ghost with realms and roads to roam?
Blue on green, black on white, black and blue,
Yet still, we’re here; tainted saint and fallen soul,
Intertwined without touch, branded by hand,
There’s nothing righteous in this aching for home. Hope. Whole.
Righteous, your eyes tell me when you stare,
Though my mirror seethes a different tale.
How can these lips shape the words want. Need. Stay.
Knowing that this is nothing but a dream doomed to fail?