We're the products of a violent rape,
bastards, dipping fingers in the same plates as lepers.
hopelessly waiting for penance,
but life itself is a lash on our backside.
We cling to the robes of whores,
we know our sins are a deluge,
our truth(tooth) decayed with plaque,
wanderers, reciting poems of thorns.
Though we batter our bodies,
enslave our children to our curses,
Innocently guilty we're, and tomorrow is ours
to make or break, for hope is the only road our home.
©wildheart
W