I should've known six months ago what kept the words trapped in my head 

And with that knowledge I should've made the changes that my dreams had so implored

But my heart is, and was, and will always be so full of hatred for this role

And so I gave myself permission to leave the messages ignored

It may not be the way to live; it might seem as if I never try

All that artificial willpower was the closest I could muster

While wearing a sheep skin that fused painfully to the form 

Corroded my wings, stole every bit of ephemeral luster

So here I am in much the same manner as before

Rolling my eyes at the atonement that I'll have to now convey

And soon enough repeat the cycle to meet the demands of this place 

Doing whatever necessary to get through another day.

O Come The Holy Messenger, Transcribed in RNA

A monster 

On a mission 

A mutation

The kind that could only be considered an Action of an Angry God

A malady 

Incurred mortality 

A sea of sickened bodies growing cold on Easter Day

And the mendiants

For mendicants

Who have lost their will to pray

The masses

Mourn the ashes

The memories and mothers in the furnaces burned to gray

Mounds

For morticians

Clutching desperately to respirators until the toxic fumes allay