You tell me you know the definition of sin.
Your eyes water red with blood that is not yours to spill;
the tears, having overcome the chasm of your flesh,
leak onto Leviticus before you and seep
through the hallowed but thin pages.
Society is on its way to a revelation.
This is the genesis of a pain you will never know.
The fire within me cries louder than your worn down plea
for “tradition.” You tell me this is heresy, that I am a blasphemer,
yet you forget it was the Pharisees that murdered the lamb.
I turn on my television to watch as the adulterer casts the first stone.
You say love is your bride, but hate is your mistress;
you lay in bed with the wicked every night.
Yea, though you force others to walk through the valley
of the shadow of death, it is you that should fear for your soul.
For in time, you shall turn to dust and your children,
after seeing that you have not risen in 3 days, will abandon your
theology. No sector will accept the ideas of your time,
no clergyman will preach your words. By death,
love is not conquered. Hypocrisy will die with the flesh.