Clutching my gods by the throat
I commence to undo them as they have done unto me.

Venomous I disassemble a tract of landmines
Planted discretely so as to go unrecognized.
Even we few who trod with care
are not impervious to their wiles:
Explosion of uninstigated wrath,
malnutrition of spirit.

I fork the straight line path from birth
To butchery:
A pound of flesh for an ounce of killer instinct
laced with desensitization.
Just in time to hear a beckon from above:

Place your faith in the whore-monger
With all the tricks of the trade to lead you
Straight from harlot to salvation.

With no Gods left to beseech for mercy
I claw, feral, at the face of wretchedness
That I might sheer enough rust away
To taste clean again.

And still, they arrive on a fleet north wind
Born in the arms of a conscience storm.

I have betrayed them:

I am Damned.

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