Along thy careful malice, there crept one singular exposition.
“There can be no other aim, more true, than an altruistic favor.”
Still, within is caught, that fell whisper, sickly sifting on the zephyr.
Our avenue of perfection is prevented by our character.
Oh for all the struggling hours! What useless nonsense are these precepts?
When the vagabond stands, in volent abnegation of their splendor?
We writhe and revel in the mire, woeful sloths and petty liars,
Blind to our iniquities, digesting our self-inflicted venom!
We look for lust to lavish, what love, alone, through labor yields.
Through this willful ignorance we beg our vices to bind us.
So much to our chagrin, our demons then flee our earnest pleas.
For they dare not dark a soul that has once been purchased by the king.
And so we wander lost, and amid the old ways we once gloried in.
Confused, because their dense nostalgia refuses our advances.
Why do the depths of our spirit, no longer adore our native chains?
How have we lost command of us? What great alien dominion reigns?
It must be that, so firmly, does the Master, have hands on my desire.
He, The Mighty, He, The Jealous, He, The All-Consuming Fire, devours
The darkling idols, which He wrenches from the grasp of all these wretches,
To build us wild shoots, into pillars, whom he’s grafted in as branches.