Your words are empty, as are mine,

but claim themselves to be sublime;

pious praise, and blinded gaze

by cataracts of light-divine.

“Why are we here, the end is near”

Your empty phrases are quite smug

and claim

you know what we should fear

and what should make our heartstrings tug, but

Drugged. That’s what we are but aren’t,

Were but weren’t, off of lies.

Sucked into a current from an ocean

now that we despise.

Where are you now, our savior?

You took our trust, blew faerie dust…

Our troubador, Xavier?

…on wounds ballooned with pious pus.

Festering within with lust for something inside each of us.