Lazarus
Fortify the borders, pull in the eyes, and turn the hands to fists. One is hard to sway, Hamlin lost it's children, but I'm still intact more or less.
The pain inflicted; passed down like a precious heirloom. One spread it around mastering it's craft. Share my one perfection with the untouchables, one would even welcome the lepers to a sermon. Show those thrown away a more formal gesture, one would give the most honesty they had ever received. The times one gave outwardly as it gave to itself. The times I used others to kill my demons, one realized it was killing myself. One shudders at my reflection and I hope that what one cast aside was really offal. One rose and one fell over and over and over, like a Promethean phoenix rising from my own ashes, and feeding from its own rotten entrails until all that's left is the hardened core. Unfortunately that is all that was left, anything held dear was thrown to the jackals. Everything held sacred flowed through ones fingers like mud leaving behind the stain of harsh lessons, and the senses of grief and shame reminding one of it's own hollowness and a roll-call of my inadequacies. One could say that at least it remained constant, that it let these things define itself so I never had to guess or be told who I was. One never pretended I wasn't myself, I never tailored myself for someone else and one didn't have to let itself be used. There is nothing that will be given; my wages are death, and I no longer repent, I grant absolution.
The pain inflicted; passed down like a precious heirloom. One spread it around mastering it's craft. Share my one perfection with the untouchables, one would even welcome the lepers to a sermon. Show those thrown away a more formal gesture, one would give the most honesty they had ever received. The times one gave outwardly as it gave to itself. The times I used others to kill my demons, one realized it was killing myself. One shudders at my reflection and I hope that what one cast aside was really offal. One rose and one fell over and over and over, like a Promethean phoenix rising from my own ashes, and feeding from its own rotten entrails until all that's left is the hardened core. Unfortunately that is all that was left, anything held dear was thrown to the jackals. Everything held sacred flowed through ones fingers like mud leaving behind the stain of harsh lessons, and the senses of grief and shame reminding one of it's own hollowness and a roll-call of my inadequacies. One could say that at least it remained constant, that it let these things define itself so I never had to guess or be told who I was. One never pretended I wasn't myself, I never tailored myself for someone else and one didn't have to let itself be used. There is nothing that will be given; my wages are death, and I no longer repent, I grant absolution.