It is our doing.
DESTRUCTION
And we stretch our fingers toward the comrades, and we raise our voices in anger.
It is all their fault.
And one by one, we slice away those that we once loved and clung to.
We seperate ourselves in fear. We can't be blamed.
It's not our fault.
This destruction.
Or maybe it is. But don't tell.
No one can know what we've done.
That would be too embarrassing.
So we stretch out our finger, and isolate our proud and foolish selves.
And then the contempt grows, like a deadly and bitter vine.
Disdain, from all those around us, who without warning, have been knifed in the chest.
She is the queen of the damned
Pride, the most bitter of all evils, for from her stems all things painful and deadly.
Pride, our closest friend and our most hated adversary.
We take her to bed. We coddle her. We allow her to dress us every morning.
And then she, like a savage beast, rips our flesh from our bones.
She mocks us when we fall, and we do, we all fall.
But we are not wrong. We are fine. Everything is fine.
At least that's what she tells me.
I am fine.
You are not.
That's what she whispers.
& we stretch out our hand,
& with a force unknown to man,
we push ourselves away from the world.
& still bleeding, and with skin still torn, we sit in a corner, alone.
We are slowly losing life...but we are fine.
He tells us that He gives grace to the humble.
Grace. A word, that without fail breathes wind in my chest.
Grace. The hope by which I live.
But as long as lady pride lays strewn across our beds,
Grace will hide it's face from us.
So we lie ill, next to her, coughing blood and dry heaving.
But we are fine.
No one else can tell, but we know, and we can't be judged.
Only God can judge.
And Grace waits outside our door.
It waits for us to push the whore from our bed.
And once we act, Grace, like a flood, will rush in, clean our wounds and lift our head.
Still, we chose torment.
It is simply too hard to admit it,
"I am wrong."
