God keeps talkin’ shit,
Callin’ me out by name,
Reminding me I’ve been made,
In my own image,
And she ain’t to blame.
Her hands are clean
Of my conscience,
Even when she moves in,
To slap my mouth silent,
The sin-stain stays with me.
I can’t wipe away the tears,
Pooling up with childish conviction,
From the mirrors of her eyes,
As she watches me struggle,
Into ownership of perspective.
Screams of “I’m not my own fault”,
Echo past her stoic gaze,
Returning without resonance,
Crashing against my understanding,
Like a foreign voice.
Wanting for understanding,
(But really absolution)
My strength fades,
Giving in to the deliverance,
Of abandonment.
Post-Neology 