Plumes of grime and human filth
Trace roots to footholds in the depths of our minds
A sinner or a saint, with how his story's told,
Clutches shadows we refuse to behold
Nails caked, color defiled with years of sweat
Spent locked, steeping in this pit, our fledgling nest
These walls, the bounds of our infinitude
Mind weary from the complexity of what little we accept
To be real
And as he opens the door, our maiden voyage to the world
From the glow, we know we'll hide or run.
We'll raise our hands to block out the sun.