Sin . . . .

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She’s in the membrane.

Turn the corners again and again,

you’ll still find her.


Sweeter than a baby’s breath,

Softer than a rain drop,

She’s a pleasant abstraction more desirable than truth.


No more enchanting is her name upon his lips.

No more laced with provocative intent is her word translated.


She’s not holy but not as suspect as your favorite friend.

You won’t deny her as her ask always makes sense.


Under the skin,

in the brittled bones beyond tensile strength her malignancy grows and grows.


She’s victorious today.

It’s hers to claim!


Lonelier than a widow’s cries is her victory’s plague.

Her show is but a subtle parody mocking that The Savior was slain.


Rippled in waves of fire your soul rests tormented,

Encased forever by Hell’s separated room.


Raptured a part of her stain,

she filters what’s left of your good soul through blood and pain.


Trickled down your death is not heavy.

Crumpled inside of it,

your soul becomes weary.


And though she did take,

no one was left weeping.

And though she did take,

you were decided in this reaping.



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