There is no sound greater than the horns,
that shake the very ground of our earth.
As once again a slight crown of thorns
has uprooted the Christian world in mirth.

I can't believe I'm stuck in the mud.
The bipolar death throw is renewed.
The pastor's words fall like rain; a thud
again, like last year, I am construed.

what's the point in writing anymore?
All my voice will do is slowly fall,
to a whisper, a feather to the floor,
my speechless soul is lashing out a call.

I point my gaze unto upper saints:
"What life is it where the cell paints?"