There are many markings that scar the eyes from the truth

How our tongues quarrel, but never cease.

How we cherish chaos, but never peace.

How we watch the bone of a mammoth charging at our views,

But we cannot see through the tusks.

What are sins?

Are they made from our ideals?

Are sins suppose to dwindle our movements and compare us to the devil?

When we make love,

Do our bodies sin from how we move them?

Is our pleasure the reason why we blossom creatures with issues?

How I wonder of the folly that tap dances under the moon.

Preaching through the symphony of its rhythm about blessings of the world.

But are blessings just the epitome of sin?

What if I kill a man for the protection of myself.

Am I bad now?

For using a bullet to shield the ignition I call life?

Am I a demon with blessings?

Or a sinful angel?

-CMCrain


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