Who are you paragon?
How can I trust those ribbons,
if I cannot trust a carpenters hands?
Aged hands, calloused hands,
those hands that I punctured.
If faith was a battle then I surely lost the war.
Now we walk and march, on and on.
I never thought that this journey would take me so long.
I thought that I would be home by now.
The reigning of the wicked must back down.
And out.