I suffer in the perfect world
where the cogs turn easily
prompted by those who clearly state
how arrangements ought to be

clarity springs from dogma's mouth
handed out by wise men
then carried out by dedicates
exacting rightness at scourge's end

the whip will bite those who fail
held by those with holy grace
fallen souls that anoint
the thirsty ground longing more

the vicars point the pious way
down hallowed ways with no dust
oh so eager to convey
how my virtue may be saved

I’ll ignore their sly glee
a quick smile at misery
for these soldiers are sacrosanct
set on their mission by holy writ

declarations become my grave
to house my body six feet down
surety has been restored
with the blemish now removed

expel me from the perfect world
my blemishes are proof enough
if the glory will be mine
a quick end is justified.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180316.