We seek perfection,
our souls to be pure.
We fear God,
of not being good enough.
We fear hell,
of being in eternal torment.
But what really torments us
is the weight of these expectations,
for an idea made up in our minds.
We are running a race
so far lost
that before we are born,
we are a product of sin.
We are so enchanted
by this light; the eternal flame.
But the light is artificial.
An ideal constructed by humanity.
The phosphlorescent bulb
that lights our night,
and guides our way in the dark.
It ensnares us.
We blindly pursue the light,
like moths to a flame,
we fool ourselves
with desire.
We can never touch
this light. It is
the sun, the moon
and the stars.
But even the stars
we see in the sky
are dead,
when we see them shine
so bright.
Even the stars die,
wishing to be pure
bringing us beauty,
even so.
Sins are unavoidable;
unless you live a life
of mere content.
Instead we choose
a tormented soul
and are killed slowly
with the tantilising desire
of the unattainable.