Sin

My whims die under layers of frost,

My men perish for unholy and pure,

My poems die for tales of lust,

Of whatever lust my Goddess endures.

My tragedies are all predictable tales,

You can see them from half a mile,

Fathers get lost on barren paths,

Son and the Spirit do not reconcile.

I don't know how far to walk,

I never really had a war to win,

I know my Goddess knows my name,

But she calls me by my sin.