Nine days have left me
hardened and without hope;
giving in to indulgence,
sprinting for the hangman's rope.
Letting threads crush my neck,
cowering gladly in the dirt;
as my poor lungs fill with sweat,
eagerly embracing hurt.

But if I should decide within,
to blindly turn away from sin,
my past be calmed,
my saber drawn,
and warily,
once more,
I'll begin.