The Garden

All these pleas are prayers
To an unholy god, so I do them backwards
In a way only both of us we'll be aware
of brokens vows and tales of murdered angels
I feel them sliding slowly by my locked lips
Tearing apart against my clenched teeth
I feel their taste on my tongue, a lingering
acrid flavour of pride and compliance
Made to quench the thirst of a hundred lives
When I kneel down and undress all of my skins
Some of them are nothing but firewood
While others are merely to satisfy the hunger
In all of them, I'm the torturous believer
Throwing up gospels and eating blasphemy
And licking your blessings off my fingers
When I talk about sin, there's no way for me
to spare myself from the humanity of any of them
Specially when all I've wanted was to torment
the skies above just to stand up to your glory
And prove you're just as human and faltering
And weak when it was my fury you could feast on
You'd slice my hymns apart to their sick core
And apply the ointment on my self-inflicted wounds
You can't never say you know the warm of a
traitor's skin, because we have the same temperature
But when my curses plucks you out of your heaven
And my godliness feel like the only colony left
for you and your deviant doctrine
You'll rise to it - skinless