A bloom of pestilence and human filth
Traces 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, steeped in this pit, our fledgling nest
Shallow walls, the bounds of the feeble infinite
Mind weary from the complexity of what little we accept
From Axiom, that imposing visitor
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 up our hands to block out the sun.
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