in foiled self examination
i curse the deamons who haunt me
shun them from my eyes
as i bury myself in my own clean darkness
but before i can beg comfort from the saints
find comfort in their joyous perfection
i crawl back to the dark ones
and pray their forgiveness
their voids which inspire me
their plagues which brighten my mind
for i know there is no greater perfection
then that of the dirty, and their filth
i realize how much of my fascination resides
in the downfall of the men i stand beside
to adore such idiocy
and yet such humanity
it is a pity thing
a small thing
and yet,
such an undying thing
i could spend hours in churches
or equal time in prisons
to admire the gluttony of my fellow humans
but also the grace and strength which they all posses
it is a tiresome thing
an unrelenting thing
to sketch with my hands
the hands of those who kill
the hands of those who heal
and to tell with my mouth
the undying stories of all men who walk
in times like my own
in a world not too different
i will realize the flaws
and how they outweigh the perfection that resides
but not too soon
not such a close time
for it is a small thing
a fascinating thing
and such is, an undying thing