Most intrepid of wanderers,
Is there a road to purge my sin?
Paths are filfthy, bridges are rotten.
Release me of this crafted prison.
My sin she lies gutted on my bed
Beside my table, lamp, medicine.
And life holds me hostage,
To desire, to deceit, to whim.
When innocence is wronged,
And I am weak, I am futile, I am corrupt.
No words can reverse, nor
Actions heal.
Why did I wrong this being,
How softly she sleeps in sheets
Unknowing of my sins, of
Lips in the morning that kiss,
Of hands that hold, of a future promised
That never did exist.
Because I am nothing,
And I have no strength to end.
