Forever Hour

I put these numbers out in front of you.
Stagnation in interpretration is what I fed you too.
Disease born from my contorted vessel of a mind.
Nothing I say nor do will ever be something kind.

Cut of the crop.
Body to be forgot.
Jealousy is all I have sort.

Wrenching thread through tender flesh.
To these crimes I feel there is nothing to confess.
Weighted souls against deeds yet to come.
My name has become the definition of damnation.

Cut of the crop.
Body to be forgot.
Jealousy is all I have sort.

So offer a hand to me and let us dive deep into contemporary.
Artist not of beauty but of suffrage.
Remember me as he who lived in the monastery up on Martha’s Ridge.

With trembling digits strapped to steel.
My obsession I feel it pointless to reveal.
For judgemental minds will deem me crazed.
Honestly, I am the only one who is not dreaming dazed.

Cut of the crop.
Body to be forgot.
Jealousy is all I have sort.

Its why I put these numbers out in front of you.
Hoping you would falter and fail like you always do.
And to no surprise my contorted vessel mind was correct.
It’s why I continued to be merciless in my torment.

Cut of the crop.
Body to be forgot.
Jealousy is all I have sort.

Years later and still I languish in cage.
For my ‘crimes’ helped turn many a page.
Lessons learned now administered in droves.
Bodies lined as in grapes planted in vast groves.

Victory is mine; imprisoned or not my jealousy does preside.
Doctrine carved above those who labelled me evil.
Alas it was they who never sort retrieval.
Return to innocent times deemed lost.
Chiefly because it was glossed,
Over to bring them power.
The thing which brought about their forever hour.