Lazaretto
Let Him Without Sin....
Exudation of my skin cells which exfoliate my sin wells. A late night of show-and-tell turns into a pale admission. The games which we play in the dark, where winning is fatal. Homicidal hypocrisy, eye-for-an-eye, before you're blinded by the cunning beast, who resides on Mulberry Lane.
For it is a wicked game we play, engulfed in gossip, aflame with hearsay. When words like bullets tear flesh and display the secrets of our hearts. Fears read plainly like words on a clean slate. The unfurling of an ancient scroll unrolled and daftly arrayed. And then posted on the timeline of your social media page, for all of your friends to make a mockery.
And I want to hide and run away, for the shame is too much to stay and face because now I am confronted by the human race, who are ready to cast their stones at me. So here I stand in front of judge and jury, awaiting my sentence, no signs of expediency to embrace. For they pry and scrutinize, and leave no stone unturned, as I languish in my shame.
And now comes the time for the unjust jury to deliver their fated sentence, now hurried, and with bitterness and seething, they bellow out the verdict. "The defendant is guilty as charged." As such, the penalty is death, of the most barbaric order, as the judge rails me harder; "You'll be hung by the neck until there is rigor mortis."
I hear the shuffle of feet, the executioner moving toward me, one ominous step at a time. He takes me by the chains, the shackles latched tighter, I'm marched toward the high beam, rope round' my neck now, all noise waxed silent. And every voiced hush anticipates the coming delightful death-show.
And the stones recently cast do not seem so bad now, as my punishment looms large in the foreground, heavy, like a thick wave of humidity. And now is my time, for the reaper has arrived to introduce me to this destined fatality. A dark hood slipped over my head, the panic escalates sharply, as a cold and boney hand slithers across my shoulder.
The hand pushes me off the high-beam, as I awkwardly fling through the sky, as the noose tightens with deft precision, strangling my frail neck, and extinguishing its air. And who would have predicted such a dire state-of-affairs? It started with my confession, and the laying of my soul bare.
For it is a wicked game we play, engulfed in gossip, aflame with hearsay. When words like bullets tear flesh and display the secrets of our hearts. Fears read plainly like words on a clean slate. The unfurling of an ancient scroll unrolled and daftly arrayed. And then posted on the timeline of your social media page, for all of your friends to make a mockery.
And I want to hide and run away, for the shame is too much to stay and face because now I am confronted by the human race, who are ready to cast their stones at me. So here I stand in front of judge and jury, awaiting my sentence, no signs of expediency to embrace. For they pry and scrutinize, and leave no stone unturned, as I languish in my shame.
And now comes the time for the unjust jury to deliver their fated sentence, now hurried, and with bitterness and seething, they bellow out the verdict. "The defendant is guilty as charged." As such, the penalty is death, of the most barbaric order, as the judge rails me harder; "You'll be hung by the neck until there is rigor mortis."
I hear the shuffle of feet, the executioner moving toward me, one ominous step at a time. He takes me by the chains, the shackles latched tighter, I'm marched toward the high beam, rope round' my neck now, all noise waxed silent. And every voiced hush anticipates the coming delightful death-show.
And the stones recently cast do not seem so bad now, as my punishment looms large in the foreground, heavy, like a thick wave of humidity. And now is my time, for the reaper has arrived to introduce me to this destined fatality. A dark hood slipped over my head, the panic escalates sharply, as a cold and boney hand slithers across my shoulder.
The hand pushes me off the high-beam, as I awkwardly fling through the sky, as the noose tightens with deft precision, strangling my frail neck, and extinguishing its air. And who would have predicted such a dire state-of-affairs? It started with my confession, and the laying of my soul bare.
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Let Him Without Sin....
Let Him Without Sin....
