The Sinner

I am now sinner where I once was saint
Hands painted red with crimson blood
Feet disheveled with muck and mire
I know the feeling to dig my own grave
To climb into the crypt and lay with the dead
Drunk full of lust, vice, and love
Life’s weary poison, the opiate of the masses
In search of a glimpse of that which is fleeting
Without respect for its power to eat away the soul
And where once whole, create holes too big fill
I am the sinner, with wings of a raven, akin to the damned
Eyes cast to the heavens, searching for salvation
Pleading to be bereaved of all life’s follies
But these wings never take flight when chained to the ground by sins of the past
Nor is sainthood every achieved
It remains, to a toxic heart, a distant elixir
Never smelled, never tasted, never healed