In Tongues of Fate: Contemplating the Bitter Rye

old high school piece,

Do prey,
Oh blessed father.
For this feeble mind grows weak,
The hands that held so solemnly
A soul so bitter black.
Find peace upon the marbled mortuary grain.

I fear for me-
The time of change,
Has swiftly passed me by.
For promise to such stubborn sin,
Sends flame upon these friendly fields,
So fondly overlooked.

The love of those that do remain,
Finds frailty upon such contort delights.
For I alone can bear this weight with no regrets.