Sacrosanct Fabrication

At the peak of midnight's hour

I kneel quietly by my nightstand

With catastrophe caressing every inch

Of the delicate fabric comprising my skin


The mere thought of inviting

A fictitious laughing stock

To cast a sea of conviction upon me

Awakens the passionate hatred

That nests within my bones


As a detouring agnostic,

My views and opinions

Are often branded as hell-worthy

Often characterized as the grim reaper

Of a blatantly corrupt society


However the icy, cold truth

That creeps across my flesh

May cause others to shriek with fear

Come what may I say

For the truth shall rise

In the absence of logic