No matter what they say, I am still the king

Come to me with damage sewn into the denim of your jacket,
with week old bruises decayed a beautiful yellow
And I will show you the scars from two souls cut each to each from the same magnificent stained glass
Come to me tripping manic on your delusions of heaven, with brilliant cross laid eternally upon your shoulders
And I will show you the Earth laid bare, stripped naked of supposed grandeur
Come to me timid and unsullied, knees scraped black by the chains of the altar
And I will show you the grave where I buried innocence, and the half-hearted epitaph I wrote when I was young and callous
Come to me yearning to believe, veins itching for a Hallelujah fix
And I will show you the words of my prophets inked into frail skin, testament to minds destroyed by madness before I'd even thought of the idea

Come to me pure and holy, hymnals dying in your throat with each breath, and I will show you sin
Come to me curious and I will show you the withering fire,
Come to me a lamb, and I will show you the slaughter

Come to me broken and deranged, revolutions pounding drums of war in your skull and I will show you mercy
Come to me sick and I will show you the desperate solution
Come to me a madman, and I will show you a liar

Come to me unwashed and sleepless, burning yourself out as a wheel in an unworthy machine and I will show you rest
Come to me seraphic and I will show you the taste of gold
Come to me craving, and I will leave you wanting

No matter what they say I am still the king