I’ve had enough of your
where the pot and the kettle prepare
to paint the silverware black,
so sure in your attack
and even convinced that
some benevolence from above
anointed you in fate,
and yet, so much
is masked by love,
and as for me, I’ve had enough of
every little thing you do –
hypocrites, like me,
yet unable to see
beyond your own skin,
though the hearts of so many,
you looked deep within
painting them like the
black by their sin,
and I know no prayer,
no prayer could save
from the shame of the cross
that brings life to the grave.

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