Flashes of Depression
The shadow of this bright star
Withholds from me the sight
Of the ethereal grace and
Beauty of this,
The world's most baited blight:
Love.
Wherein may I hold you
In my arms and weep
Not for the passing of years,
But for the countless
Rutting sheep?
Bray.
For what masterful grasp
Of the arts of tongue
And the transformation of
The edifices of these dark towers
Without rungs?
Rage.
To what deity must I
Prostrate before in supplication
For an audience with that
Most divine congress?
Masturbation,
Alone.
I seek that which is freely given
But is taken most forcefully,
Death in the kiss of a lesser love,
Eternal salvation from a lusty messiah,
False belief.
Faithless.
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