A poem about god, freedom, and fear of freedom |
Our lady of sin Hail, most holy of angels; you guide us evermore. Praise be to thine father; the grandest designer from a time long before. Fall far down the line, stray long from the path, Soon you shall feel the shepherd's wrath. A cattle am I, a sheep are you; From our herd, the butcher does slew. Death awaits inside our pen, But death, the same, outside, again. Our lady dost comfort us; Keep us from fear. But the sons do frighten us, Of the outside, so near. A cruel game of cold and cold, A final insult, that they may stay their hold. My turn draws near; the butcher's come. The gates, now open, but my legs, now numb. Not drug, not fear that holds me and my kin, But a comforting look from my lady of sin. |