Gloom of the soul
A cold sort of iron
and it's not in my blood
Discursive yet consistent
my rivers of saliva
drown bodies of reason
Yet my silence is so empty
my barren plains of solitude
the place where bodies starve
Gloom of the soul
Pour to feel poor
shackled to hold the crimes hostage
If Jesus bled on my behalf
then why is there blood on my hands?
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