Feeding off stability,
The guilt spoken on my chest as I laid on my back.
I'm trying to balance mistakes on a scale,
But there's no point in tipping
The butcher or the waiter.
It can be pulled apart in any way you want,
But this kind of patience is maiming.
It's kept so rare as to have a life
Uncorrupted, untrusted by the judicial eye
That peaks under the blindfold.
This blood now boils by association,
The bitter masterpiece tastes of unripe delicacy
And its sour seeds burn from a tarnished creation.
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