Untidy, untimely, unlocked
sanctuary invaded by the scum,
ye thou art scum really,
for after you left a layer formed
a layer of distrust and angst.

And even yet thou demand absolution,
like it’s just a wish to grant lightly,
like it is yours for the taking,
perfect plot you imagined,
to thee I’m so sappy not to see.

But the perfect plot fails to beat logic,
our concerns cannot be trampled on
for your imagination to sit upon.
For in plotting you never knew
there was always a law that stipulates.

Skepticism was born that day,
the day you killed the baby in the bag,
the baby is the child of Fealty
upon which you thrust your knife;
and yet you demand absolution.

Like it’s yours for the taking;
like it’s freely granted.
For in pardoning I affirm no injury.
And yet you speak of pardoning,
like it’s just a piece of idea imagined.

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